


With a Gasp of Breath and In the Space of a Heartbeat it all Melted Away (Just a Moment was all She Needed)

by Mari_Knickerbocker



Series: Scattered Facets Gathered into a Lifetime [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, MCU timeline tweaked to fit X-MEN movies, Multi, Not Really Character Death, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, do i spy humor?, hopefully a redeeming amount of fluff, possibly drowning in angsty feels, sticks to MCU timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-22 08:55:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3722902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mari_Knickerbocker/pseuds/Mari_Knickerbocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pop culture would have you believe that finding your Soulmate was all sunshine and rainbows, butterflies and glittery sprinkles, unicorns and puppy dogs. And that was just when the films depicted the first meeting between your average, everyday, run-of-the-mill, <em>mortal</em> pairing. When it came to Hollywood's grasp of Soulmates and immortality they were even further off the mark. Hard to believe as it may seem (which was not at all) when it came to actually finding happily ever after society couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. </p>
<p>Life unending only magnified the difficulties. It tripled the joys and quadrupled the sorrows. She <em>bloody</em> well would <strong>know</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	With a Gasp of Breath and In the Space of a Heartbeat it all Melted Away (Just a Moment was all She Needed)

**Author's Note:**

> After gorging myself on the fabulous works of ozhawk, amusewithaview, and CeliaEquus (just to name a few) in this alternate universe and spending weeks going back and forth on weather or not I should or even if I could do this justice I finally decided to try my hand at writing a Soulmate AU. Naturally I am using my OC. At first I thought to do this from Wolverine's perspective and not an OC's, but I did not count on how demanding Avery could be. (we will have to have a talk about that soon)
> 
> I **HIGHLY** recommend that you go check out (if you haven't already):  
>  ozhawk's [Soulmate Shorts AKA The Crackship Armada](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2658407/chapters/5941115) which is part of The Soulmates Continue series (lots of good work there too)  
> amusewithaview's [Nothing but love in view](http://archiveofourown.org/series/112871)  
> CeliaEquus's [ Fate Has a Twisted Sense of Humor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3398315/chapters/7437749)
> 
> I owe the inspiration for this to them; cannot stress _**that**_ enough.
> 
> Bit of friendly advice, make sure to clear your calendar. Once you dive into these wonderful authors works you're not going to want to come up for air anytime soon, just sayin'
> 
> PS! Take a gander at SoupShue's [ Fates like Ours ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3556505/chapters/7832219) She has some of the best descriptions for character reactions that I have ever read. Don't drink anything while reading you'll end up with a wet key board; talking from experience here.

As she was fond of remarking – to any who cared to listen – she’s been knocking about this ol’ dust bowl for a long, long time. Just how long exactly you might ask and she just might tell; if the right mood struck her. The standard reply, however, was a noncommittal, indifferent, shrug. She being singularly uninterested in summoning the energy required for a proper verbal evasion. She likes to let others think she’s forgotten. That she never cared enough to keep an accurate record in the first place. Sometimes she takes perverse pleasure in deliberately clouding the issue by tossing out a random date or failing to correct someone else’s erroneous assumptions. The guesses never come close to the truth, not even by a long shot. Besides, she takes comfort in the fantasy that along with fooling everyone else she’s pulled the wool over her own eyes. She’s told herself so many times that she doesn’t remember that she has started to suspect that very well may be the case.

Although she might no longer recall the specific time, date, and season, she cannot deny that she has lived through and experienced a vast majority of what the modern world considers the bygone glory of the past. Left to decay and transform into impartial history.

Avery knows a pipe dream when she sees one.

The cost of those long years – other than having front row seats to the everlasting folly of mankind – was often more than she could afford. As long as there has been the human race there have been Soulmates and the Words. Why? Hell, there were whole branches of science, philosophy, and religion devoted to why (she knows, she saw them in their infancies). The same goes for how and who, not to forget where or when. Don’t even get her started on what. But Avery’s not interested in the wither to’s or the why for’s. She is only concerned with the fact that living as she has means she’s found (and – inevitably – lost) that other portion of her soul so often she’s amazed it has not crumbled into dust. Or at the very least resembles swiss cheese, it’s certainly a fair approximation of a sieve by now. Avery defiantly feels as if she’s been dragged back and forth over a cheese grader for Fate’s sick enjoyment.

She hopes her soul proves to be the perfect, irreplaceable seasoning needed to make reality a splendiferous, sinfully orgasmic dish for Fate’s taste buds to warrant such abuse. (She’d tear out that traitorous bitch’s throat – if she ever got her claws on it – if such were not the case).

Such is the price when one has been blessed ( **CURSED** ) with a mutation such as hers. Avery may not stay dead but that does not stop her from _wanting_ to die.

Popular culture, films, television, literature, music, hell society in general would have you believe that finding your soulmate is all sunshine and rainbows, butterflies with glittery wings in a storm of sugary sprinkles, _feckin’_ unicorns and puppy dogs snuggled up with kittens. That when those Fated for each other finally meet and speak those blessed words it's all doe-eyed submission, a sugary sappy love devoid of misunderstandings, everything is coming up roses and would always do so. What could go wrong, and often did go wrong, in the **real** world was never addressed. Conveniently swept under the rug, squashed like bug on a windshield, or roughly shoved back into the closet it dared sauntered out of. Every paring is perfect, the triads never suffer petty jealousies, and quartets are two romantic parings wrapped up in an immaculately pure platonic whole. As for quintets and the larger rarer groupings everyone has his/her perfect romantic match and the rest enjoy the strongest of platonic friendships ever to walk upon this good Earth, gracing the world with their presence (in the case of odd numbers there is always the one soul singularly indifferent to anything more than friendship). There is never anything _messy_. Which was ridiculously naïve not to mention thoughtless for it planted dangerously unfair expectations within unsuspecting minds; to live was to entangle oneself in **_mess_**.

Avery gave up on even bothering to patronize let alone actively participate in – not to mention actually comprehending – such drivel decades ago. Pretty much after the invention of moving pictures; she stuck to reading as her go to leisure activity. At least then in the works of philosophers and scientist a more realistic and logical picture was painted. She was indifferent about theology, at least in its practical pursuits. Dying only to live again (over and over and over again) rather spoiled one’s ability to appreciate the idea of an afterlife and the practices that would lead one there.

Of course, when Hollywood tried to tell stories about immortal soulmates things went even more sideways if you could believe it. (Not a difficult thing to picture, she knew). Avery did not understand the current obsession with vampires and werewolves and all manner of beings living far beyond the normal standard – sensible – expiration date. She never understood why this particular fascination continuously rolled around back into the limelight of humanity’s flighty sense of trendiness; remaining in vogue beyond the limits of acceptable taste. Apparently there truly was no accounting for taste. She had warned Bram when he first sat down to draft Dracula that he was sowing the seeds to a cult following. (She had also attempted to tell him that if he bothered to try and truly understand Vlad the man not the unfeeling villainous caricature sketched by history then perhaps he would not be so hasty or so resolute in his judgments. But her reasonable plea fell on deft ears. Avery could not stress how grateful she was to once again be living in an age where a woman’s worth was appreciated, her value once more on the rise). 

But seriously, who in their right mind could possible want to live forever? Who would ever think that living forever would mean that they would have just the one soulmate and get to keep her/him for all eternity? How big of an **_ignoramus_** did you have to be _?!?!_

Avery was living proof of just how wrong society got it. She’d be the first to admit that that was not such a huge revelation.

When it came to things that _really_ mattered society often couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn they were so far off the mark. Once in a blue moon, society would manage to surprise her with a bull’s-eye (usually when they weren’t aiming for one); just enough of them to keep her from becoming wholly cynical and drowning in her own personal brand of nihilism. 

She had lost track of just how many marks she has. Honestly! Unlike the faint amusement she derives from mucking about with her age, Avery has no desire to even bother counting the words twisting and winding their way about her person. She deliberately stopped keeping a running tally when she realized she already had a handful of centuries to her name, well on her way to reaching a full millennium of life, and the words continued to burn their way into her flesh just as their speakers would carve their way into – then eventually out of – her heart. At one point she wondered if she would run out of available real-estate for the soulmate marks. But impossibly (it was just plan inconceivable) and to her everlasting dismay it seemed the words continued to find places to appear; careless slapdash handwriting in various degrees of clarity and size turning her into a walking manuscript. Out of a desire to keep herself from seeing (exactly how much of her has been claimed then discarded) she’s taken to wearing as much clothing as she can get away with. She uses make-up to hide the rest; those on her hands, feet, arms, and the (mercifully) few on her face and neck. The fact that it keeps others from asking too many pointed questions is just an added bonus.

There’s a damn good reason why Avery prefers to live the life of a hermit. Several **damn _good_** reasons in fact.

Lamentably the vast majority of her marks are the faded dull gray of a deceased soulmate. They are the lingering mementos of individuals no longer cared for by anyone else but her. Avery finds it to be a heavy, near unbearable, burden to be the sole person left to mourn those forgotten by everyone else, even history. She does not bother to visit the graves, although she could draw a map to each and everyone with her eyes closed, she carries the mausoleum around with her in the shape of those faded marks. It’s gotten to the point where she no longer welcomes the pleasant, tingling sting of a new mark forming. She dreads it, possibly even fears it. Like on par to going to the dentist. 

Thankfully, mercifully, for the sake of her own sanity, there had been years upon years and decade after decade where no marks formed. There was no soulmate wandering about waiting for her to find them, to complete and balance them for the remainder of their days. Avery already believes herself to be half crazy and she’s just an unfortunate mutant. She did not really relish the idea of true insanity.

Although knowing her mutation, any true mental imbalance would probably correct itself as the brain cells regenerated of their own volition. _Typically, not only I am unable to shake off this mortal coil, I can’t even lose my marbles properly. There’s absolutely no sodding fun to be had._ She’s really not positive about that theory and did not care to test it. As difficult as she found it to remember all she lost, it would be a special kind of hell to have those marks and _**not**_ recall the voices, faces, and love connected to them. It’s her own personal nightmare. Worse than the one she’s living and most would find that onerous enough.

So many people shunned those without a mark. Looked down their pointy noses at those poor unfortunate souls, sneered and scornfully dubbed them the _soulless_ treating them as some sort of plague. (She’s lived with plague, she’d take a friend without a soulmark over the plague any damn day. Every sodding time). There was a point in Avery’s life when she had envied the mark less. When she had raved and raged against Fate and its casual indifference. Of course, if you had found only to lose your latest set of soulmates like she had, you probably would not have acted any differently. Those years when she had gone without forming a new mark truly had been a balm to her, well, to her soul.

The Eastern religions and Eastern culture did not hold with such a narrow view of those individuals lacking a soulmate mark, those with wordless unmarred skin. Then again when one’s knowledge about and teachings on soulmates went hand in hand with a belief in reincarnation, one tended not to be so bloody hasty to condemn. Of course, a belief in the wheel of reincarnation propelled by an individual’s karma and influencing what said individual was bond for in the next life, defiantly helped. A constant recycling of lifetimes made it easier to accept the apparent soulless. It’s possible that somehow, somewhere, in their past life an individual did something that made them unworthy. That warranted a life without a soulmate even a platonic one.

A soul may have to travel through multiple turnings of the wheel before it was ready to receive the gift of being matched. 

There were years when Avery had refused to seek out her soulmate. She tried her damnedest to avoid another living being, to hide herself away in a hole so dark she needed to ship sunlight in. Avery was stubborn and her efforts were laughable for eventually she would bump into that special person. After all what was Fated, written down in the books of the heavens by that lazy hand, would come home to roost – eventually – no matter how long or how hard she tried to avoid it. She gave up on avoidance, mostly. Sometimes a fit of pique would strike her and she’d gladly tell Fate to bugger off. But Avery’s lived long enough to know the futility of holding a grudge and she would resign herself to play the hand dealt to her.

For all of her rebellious temperament it’s never occurred to her to refuse a bonding. Avery was borne to endure but she did not think she could tolerate living knowing those who were Fated to be hers and not bonding. As always, for Avery, it was all or _abso-bloody-lutely_ nothing, no middle ground, no turning back. Of course if they chose not to bond with her, well, she respected their wishes despite what she might feel about the matter. Avery certainly could understand why someone would not want to bond with some _thing_ like her. (If she had been given the choice to bond to with herself, she'd most likely refuse).

It’s with the dawn of the 19th century that her resolve to just muddle along and accept whatever Fate throws her way is finally tested; to her breaking point.

****~~~~~~~~~~~~~****

The longest dry spell she’s ever had was broken in 1832 when she feels the familiar poignant scorch of new words forming. The time between Avery’s last new mark and this one has been so extensive that she’s nearly forgotten what it felt like. Her breath hitches and tears are stinging at the corner of her eyes (but not falling) as she waits for the mark to finish staking its territory. When the sensation leaves she’s left nearly panting with anxiety. Trembling slightly she twists an arm up to worry at the spot below her left shoulder blade where the new soul mark now resides. An involuntary shiver over takes her as her fingers brush at the words. Curiosity getting the better of her (it’s always killing cats, but satisfaction has never brought her back again…yet) Avery strips off her layers and positions herself in between two mirrors; giving herself a proper look at the thing. In a messy, perfunctory, scrawl she reads:

_Give us a chance, doll. You’ll find we’re a bit more durable and a whole lot less fragile than you fear._

A wet chuckle escapes her throat and before she can even register the movement she’s putting her head in her hands. Tears falling in earnest in a way she hasn’t sanctioned for ages now. Avery can’t quite make up her mind if she’s crying out of relief or if it’s a lament for the poor fool she hasn’t even encountered.

She doesn’t look at the thing after that. If she did she would have noticed how at times it faded from glossy black to dullest gray and back again. She’s seen that before it was a characteristic eerily similar to how her own words had faded in and out upon her soulmate’s skin even as Avery would die only to come back to life again. If she saw that, she might think to hope. The thought never occurs to her, however.

Eighteen thirty-two is just the tip of the iceberg. As the nineteenth century progresses she’s garnered herself a whole bevy of new soul marks, damn near a militia’s worth of souls out there waiting to mesh with hers. She gets a new mark in 1913; hovering right over her belly button. Then it’s in 1917 that the next mark brands her. Blossoming to life across the inner curve of her left breast the perfect place for someone to rest their weary head and listen to her heartbeat. She stares at the sprawling blocky letters and frowns.

_I killed you, shot you right between the eyes…forgive me?_

It’s not the first time someone’s told her they already killed her. Although it is the first time those particular words have appeared on her skin, the forgiveness part is new too. She doesn’t quite know what she should do about that. So Avery does what she’s learned to do best, ignore it until it becomes relevant.

When another mark follows in 1918 it occurs to her that she’s never meant the owner of those words from 1832; the ones that broke the dam and opened up the flood gates. She wonders if he died without Avery ever meeting him. (She recalls the handwriting looking distinctly masculine – she’s become a reluctant master on the topic of deciphering gender from writing samples). That’s happened before to her dismay. She does not doubt it will happen again. It was a tragedy particularly prevalent after Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_ became popular. _Of all the stupidly, insipid plots._ A tale of star-crossed soulmates who end up killing themselves upon the mistaken assumption that other is dead. Avery had wanted to throttle the playwright. She lost a fair share of her own soulmates because they never gave any credence to the explanation of her mutation. One could do a lot of damage in the few still moments it took for her heart to begin to beat again and her soulmates were never as durable as herself.

Thinking him already lost to her, Avery squares her shoulders and marches on. _After all, I can’t regret what I never had in the first place._ It’s a cold comfort but it’s the only one left to her. It never occurs to her to actually check the mark. She’s learned to detest the sight of gray. 

She meets the man belonging to the words from 1913 when he’s just twenty one and she knows that she is in trouble from the moment he opens his mouth. (Avery knew just how much trouble she was in for the moment his words marched their way across her belly). She’s living in Poland at the time and Abraham is perfect. He’s human and he’s Jewish but more than that he accepts her and loves her. She tells him more of her long sordid history than she’s ever dared to tell anyone else and he doesn’t judge her for it, he simply holds her giving her all the support and comfort she’s denied herself. Avery falls desperately in love with the man and quickly bonds with him then marries him - blithely ignoring the fact that he’s mortal and forming yet one more romantic bond only leads to heartache in the end. She soon falls pregnant – something she hasn’t allowed herself for an age now – and is giddy at the birth of their daughter in 1932. It is also in 1932, exactly a hundred years after that lost soulmate’s words sudden appearance, another mark makes its presence felt.

Avery considers it to be a sign that her lost one has been returned to her. She first thinks to hide it from Abraham but then shows him and is delighted by the joy he expresses at its sight; in loving him she has learned once more how to love those who came before him and those who will follow after. They throw a second private celebration marking this new soulmate's birth. Avery likes to imagine that when she finally meets this one he or she will become like a sibling to her own sweet Hanna. Then in just a handful of years things fall spectacularly apart and her happy ever after is shattered as her family is ripped away from her. By 1945 Avery’s husband and child are both dead, victims of the Holocaust. Shortly after that she decides it is time to slink back to her favorite den and lick her wounds. Avery does not have much contact with the outside world as she mourns. The fear that she is forgetting everything Abraham helped her to re-learn about acceptance prompts Avery to slowly come out of hiding just as the fifties give way to the counter culture of the sixties.

In the 60’s she gets a few more, then even more in the 70’s and the 80’s really do a number on her. She notes the appearance of each new soul mark and reads the words so she’ll recognize them when they’re spoken but doesn’t spare them another thought. She manages to find a few after Abraham and eventually she loses them too, it is a pattern she has become achingly accustomed to but that ache does not stop Avery from following it. She wonders if this could be classified as an addiction even though its pressed upon her by Fate.

It is not until the winter of 2002 when she's staring down the barrel of the 21st century (holy _flipping_ hell the 21st (!) she was born sometime in the 12th – she likes to think) that Avery officially meets soulmate circa 1932.

“It’s a pleasure to finally speak with you face to face my dear,” Charles Xavier greets her and despite herself Avery finds her lips twitching up into a smile. 

With the invention of the telephone she always wondered how this soulmate could have those as his opening gambit and not have spoken to her before then. She speculated that they would be pen pals first; saving meeting in person for some later date all unknowing about what they'll mean to each other until then. Avery wasn’t half wrong there. It was possible to be pen pals of a sort with a telepath.

“Is it really a pleasure laddie,” she purred her amusement, voice dropping into its original accent without conscious thought, “or is that jis those polished menners of yours spikkin?”

Xavier startled with recognition at her words then bursts into delighted laughter. “I’ll have you know it’s because of you I’ve kept my manners so polished!”

Through Charles Avery manages to meet soulmates 1969 (one of them), 1973, and one of the 1986’s. All of them platonic to Avery’s great joy. (A couple make it known that they would be interested in a relationship somewhere in between platonic and non-platonic. Although she is flattered, Avery has yet to take them up on the offer. It has been far _too_ long since she last partook in any bedroom activities and she was far too shy of showing off her bare skin. The fact that she was covered in a thin pelt of golden fur never factored into that equation. Hank and Kurt both were blue and fury whilst Rogue could not bring herself to touch another for fear of hurting them, Avery did not fear being shunned due to the physical manifestations of her mutation. It was the other marks. Those old remains of soulmates long gone. She’s had soulmates in the past who scorned her because of all her marks. Avery did not want to risk losing what she had only just discovered. Besides she has a suspicion that losing Abraham has ruined her ability to love another like that). She’s been so long without a friend that suddenly finding herself surrounded by four platonic soulmates all at once is an unexpected godsend. One that she would not thumb her nose at, not this time. Hank, Kurt, and Rogue along with Xavier gave her back a vitality that Avery had not realized she was denying herself. It is possible that she’s kept her true self stashed away for far too long – and no, those years spent as a living science experiment first in Nazi Germany and then back in the States did not count as proper human interaction.

Still she keeps her distance – old habits die hard and she’s had centuries to ingrain hers – but now she has four good reasons not to linger in the wilderness for time unending. There was always a room at the Institute left open for her, whenever she cared to make use of it, and although Avery never officially signed up to join the X-Men she keeps herself well informed of what's happening in their lives. Each of them know that if they should ever need her they only have to ask and she would be there. Avery invests in a mobile (something she thought she'd never have any need for) and establishes a pattern of checking in with Kurt, Hank, and Rogue at least once a week. She and Charles continue to share the occasional telepathic gossip session; with his powers boosted by Cerebro her meager talents at telepathy are sufficient. Her friendship with Hank gives her a reason to appreciate the curiosity of a scientific mind once more; the fact that he's such a gentle man - despite his bestial appearance - helps immensely. It's the same with Kurt. His kind, forgiving, nature helps her to find it in herself to forgive those who tormented her in war torn Germany as well as the power hungry army brass that tutored her in America. (It helps that he's shared similar experiences and has already made the move towards forgiveness and acceptance. Avery might know the folly of holding a grudge, it does not keep her from forming one, hers is a temperament made for resentment). Charles possesses such a vast well of hope, in humanity and for humanity, that Avery cannot help but draw strength from it. She had forgotten just how freeing hope could be. He helps her understand that. 

As for Rogue, Avery finds herself taking on the roll of a surrogate mother. Finally the hole left in her heart from Hanna's murder starts to knit itself shut. She listens to Rogue's teenage woes with an everlasting patience she remembers from ages ago. It is second nature for Avery. Her patient and firm-but-fair approach with Rogue is soon rewarded as the girl grows into a remarkable young lady and as she grows their relationship morphs (as it should) from one of surrogate mother/daughter to that of close friends. That does not mean Avery hesitates to put the fiery Southern Bell back in her place (when required) it just means they're equals. She expects Rogue to return the favor if she ever catches Avery acting a fool. (Rogue usually responds to any verbal rebuke - after she's calmed down and thinks about why she'd been hit with the sharp edge of Avery's tongue - with the remark: "You're such a good bro Ave Ah don't deserve ya". Since they're on the phone Avery freely indulges the urge to roll her eyes at the comment, every single time, she can't quite hide the smile in her voice as she replies: "Then go and earn the privilege lass").

It is thanks to her relationships with those four that Avery is finally convinced that she is a valued part of the world and should take an active role in it. They prevent her from reverting to the life of hermit, permanently. The fact that they brought her back to herself was just icing on the cake. (She was a tad more damaged by the aftershocks of her losses during WWII and life as an experiment then she liked to admit).

When the spring of 2004 rolls around Avery is introduced to soulmate circa 1964. She’s standing in the front garden of her log cabin up in the far reaches of the Rocky Mountains (where she went to clear her head after the mutant cure debacle of last summer; she’s grateful she wasn’t anywhere near the San Francisco Bay when the shit hit the fan. She had a hard enough time helping Charles and Rogue pull themselves back together months after the fact) when he comes rolling up in a vehicle that practically screams government issue. She watches with narrowed eyes as he steps out of the black SUV wearing an immaculate well-fitted black suit and sliding a pair of shades into the inner breast pocket. She doesn’t make a move to great him; she waits and makes him come to her. He’s trying to project the image of a simple pencil pusher, someone not worth getting all hot and bothered about, but she can see through the act. His bearing screams government alphabet agency and she can read the fine musculature and specialized training behind each of his movements. 

This does absolutely fuck all to put her at ease. She knows that’s what he intends, she reads it in his body language and can smell it in his scent as the breeze wafts it her way. But intentions or not she’s ready for the ax to fall. Avery’s been burned by government agencies and their jack booted thugs more times than she cared to recollect. There was no way in _hell_ that she was going to let him get the drop on her. But then he opens his mouth to speak and she finds the metaphorical ground disappearing out from underneath her in an entirely different way.

“Ms Wallace,” he moves to shake her hand she ignores the offered limb, “I’m Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, I would like to talk to you about possibly joining one of our initiatives. I realize that your association with Xavier and his Institute as well as certain unpleasantness between the mutant community and SHIELD last year might prevent you from wanting to” – 

“Let me jis stop ye right there bucko,” she interjects pouring some of her water bottle out over her right hand then rubbing away at it with the edge of her shirt, “do ye hiv any idea how much _bleeding_ concealer I have to use to hide this damn thing?”

She finishes getting the make-up off then holds up her fist for his inspection. His face is blank as he scans the back of her hand; there in a precise cramped script rests damn near a paragraph of writing.

“That belongs to you,” she informs him one eyebrow rising sarcastically, “quite literally has your ruddy name on it.”

“That’s a fair assessment.”

“So how many cracks about you being a nancy boy did you have to endure growing up?” She inquires half-jokingly, she realizes that having words that describe the use of make-up would leave a young man open to ridicule. She’s pleasantly surprised to note a faint tinge of pink on the man’s cheeks and a slight shuffle of his feet. _Looks like I’ve managed to startle Agent Super Spy into giving away some classified intel._ Avery doesn’t bother to conceal her delight.

“Come on inside Phil, I have a feeling everything’s going to be just aces between us. As long as you stop trying to recruit me for SHIELD, I know exactly what it is they do and just how good they are at doing it. I’ve been around the block a time or two before, you know.”

She had no idea just how accurate her initial assessment of their relationship would be – Avery would accuse herself of having precognition if she didn’t already know predicting the future had never been one of her particular gifts. Phil makes it clear from the outset that he prefers their bond to be platonic and she is not about to fight him on the issue. They solidify the bond that very day and Avery hides the urge to purr like a cat as the steady rhythm of his heartbeat easily fits amidst the four already underlining and supporting her own. She has not bonded with so many at once in such a lengthy stretch of time that she finds herself chasing a natural high, reluctant to come down. Although they have bonded it does not change her mind about laughingly refusing his offer to join SHIELD. That also does not stop him from attempting to make the offer every chance he gets; it quickly becomes an inside joke between them, one that he opens every phone call with:

_“How about you come down to DC and sign a couple of forms, nothing official mind, you’d just be signing away the rights to your soul.”_

“Get ye behind me Satan and tempt me not.”

(She doesn’t bother telling him that she already lost any singular claim on her soul the minute she acknowledged Fate’s tendency to parcel sections of it out to perishable mortals with a freighting regularity).

She cherishes her connection to Phil (perhaps just a tad bit more than her connection to the others). For unlike the others he has no special ‘gifts’ to fall back on just a hard earned skill set that’s taken him years of difficult labor to hone until mastering them. **But** just like the rest he’s the type of man who places himself out there on the front lines between danger and the innocent naïve populace it threatens. Avery respects his commitment to his job, his unwavering trust that what SHIELD does is absolutely necessary even – especially – when things become morally ambiguous. She respects it and him _however_ that does not stop her from fretting and she worries about Phil _constantly._

She does not intend to disrespect Charles, Hank, Kurt, and Rogue by placing a little more effort into her relationship with Phil; it's just that Avery knows the true value of a person’s life and understands better than anyone just how fragile humanity truly is. Phil reminds her of that vulnerability even as he gives her a reason to love humans (not just mutants) again. And bless them, they realize that.

It is a recollection that’s brought home to her forcibly in 2008, not from anything that happens to him, but from what _happened_ to her.

After the revelation of the Iron Man armor and Stark’s casual announcement that **He _is_ Iron Man** Avery packs up a few things and leaves the States. She’s gotten a sixth sense for each time Phil’s about to try and recruit her in earnest. She just knows that after that debacle of a press conference the man would show up on her doorstep the with the entire recruitment brochure in hand. She’s been living at her cabin in the Adirondacks for the last year and half and she did not want SHIELD business spoiling the tranquility of that home (it’s her favorite, she’s rather protective). She lets him know she will be out of town and out of touch with a preemptive text message; she swings by the Institute to give the others a heads up in person.

For some reason she’s not even sure of, Avery settles down just outside of Prague renting a hotel room for an undetermined length of time. She hasn’t been in Eastern Europe since before the Iron Curtain went up; she certainly hasn’t visited in the years since they tore it down. She’s not sure how long she will be staying, she only bothered to pack enough for a few weeks, but she can make it stretch for a month if need be. She would most likely head back to America before then, she just needs to avoid Coulson long enough to discourage him. He’s been so busy lately that two, three weeks tops, should do the trick. She’s counting on the added strain of managing a billionaire playboy genius turned traumatized hero to work in her favor.

Avery’s only been in residence for a week before her shoulder blades start to itch with the regard of unfriendly eyes. Somebody is watching her and she does not appreciate it. It pisses her off that so far she’s been unable to catch a glimpse of her stalker. After another week of cat and mouse she’s about ready to swallow her pride and call Coulson. She has half convinced herself that he’s tasked one of his pet assassins with trailing her in retaliation; but he's not that passive aggressive or petty. 

Phil’s usually content to just let her work things out herself and then put in an appearance after she’s ironed out all the kinks (that’s what she appreciates about her current batch of soulmates they respect her need for space).

She wakes in the middle of the night, feeling eyes on her for the umpteenth time, knowing that whoever it is their intentions have shifted from merely unfriendly to deadly. She pads across the floor and pushes the heavy wooden wardrobe halfway across the window. Peering around its scant protection she scans the nearby rooftops. There’s a full moon out and it helps but its light isn’t necessary; her night vision is eight times better than the average human and more impressive than most nocturnal predators. To put it bluntly Avery can see in the dark; it's not just the pointy ears that encourage people to constantly compare her to a cat.

It doesn’t take her long to spot the sniper in his perch.

It is not enough time for her to do _anything_ to prevent him from completing his task.

Even as the bullet is sent revolving on its terminal trajectory her mind notices details about her unknown attacker. The most significant one is the flat reflection of moonlight off of something metallic, something other than the barrel of the sniper rifle. She’s just identified the metallic object as a prosthetic arm when the bullet pierces her right between the eyes and continues its momentum to blow out the back of her skull in a grisly spray. Avery’s nothing but a crumpled heap on her bedroom floor stained with her own brain matter, blood seeping into her t-shirt, whilst the sniper casually packs up his rifle then flits away. Mission accomplished.

It takes her all of five minutes to fully regain her faculties and the minute she does she’s already moving. She’s kept enough of her old contacts to have heard the rumors and she can make an educated guess as to the identity of her most recent murderer. Avery’s got her phone out, pressed to her ear dialing Phil’s number, before she’s even picked herself up off the floor. She’s thanking her lucky stars she thought to pick it up off the nightstand when she went to the window. She knows what he and the rest have just experienced and her number one priority is reassuring them that she’s alright, they have not lost her – they will never lose her.

_“Avery”–_

His voice breaks on a half stifled sob and that’s something she never wanted to hear from him.

“I’m fine, everything is going to be fine,” she rushes to reassure him, “I’m coming home. Even if I have to swim I will be home. Just 48 hours - tops. You can see me then and you can yell at me all you want. I won’t say a word until you’ve called me every synonym for stupid you can think of, start combing the dictionary tonight if you need inspiration.” She’s starting to ramble and she knows it but the truth is she’s shaken and she does not want Phil to realize that until after she has gotten a chance to process just how rough of a shape she is in.

“All you need to know right now Phil is that I’m fine, really, truly, fine and I will see you in 48 hours. I **_promise_** you.” 

_“48 hours. I’m going to find you a new definition for_ ‘fine’ _in the meantime, you keep using that word but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t mean what you think it does.”_

Phil’s voice is already steadier and his attempt at sarcastic humor is bracing for the both of them. She takes it as a sign that he is getting over the shock of feeling a bonded soulmate die then come back to life just as suddenly. Phil knew of her mutation in theory and she warned him of this possibility before they bonded, reminded him each time they renewed the bond, but knowing something in theory isn't the same as experiencing it in reality. Not everyone could withstand the sudden bereavement and its quick reversal that was always a potential risk when bonded to a person with a regenerative mutation such as hers – she would not think less of Phil if he decided to let the bond fade after this episode. But that's a decision that can wait.

She’d called Phil first because she knew the minute Charles felt her heart start beating again he would be hunting for her with Cerebro. Coulson did not have the best resources for finding her; SHIELD was good but it wasn’t all that and a bag of chips. Besides, unlike Phil, the rest had experience with a mutant who possessed a strong healing factor – Heck! Hank had a healing factor of his own – so she took the gamble that they would be far less panicked by the nights sudden turn of events.

That doesn’t stop her from calling Hank as soon as she finishes her conversation with Phil. He answers before the second ring even completes and from the faint echo of his voice she knows that he has put her on speaker phone.

_“Charles already found you. We can be at your location in ten and half hours with the X-Jet; quicker if we push it.”_ She takes a moment to close her eyes and just breathe in the steady reassurance of his words.

“I can be in Vienna in roughly six hours if I hoof it, four if I catch a train. Someone set a feckin’ ghost after me, I don't know who and I don't know why. I do **not** want you exposed. **_Don’t_** come to Prague. ” 

_“If zat is vat you vant Liebling.”_ Kurt promises her and she knows the rest agree.

“What I want is to see the lot of you.”

_“Then Vienna it is. Activate your tracker. We’ll collect you as quickly as we can.”_

Avery shoves what little she brought in a pack, grabs a map and a compass, then casually strolls out of the city as if it was the middle of the day and she was just another Uni student backpacking on a scenic tour of Europe. She doesn’t feel safe using public transportation and besides she is still too jittery to blend in credibly. A good run is exactly what she needs. It will clear her head (in a manner more beneficial than the bullet embedded in her former bedroom’s brick wall) and give her the perspective required to figure out why that particular assassin would be sent after her now, of all times. Not to mention efficient; she’ll eat up the miles quicker running on all fours then sitting on her arse in a locomotive. Avery barely has the patience required to get her a safe distance into the countryside before her skin is crawling with the need to shift.

She finds herself a secluded spot some distance off the road shrugs the bag off her shoulders and peels off her still soiled clothing; she was too focused on soulmates to bother with cleaning up. Naked she tosses the ruin articles of cloth away from her and settles the pack back in place. Avery then drops to all fours and it’s just a matter of a few moments of Zen-like concentration before undulating waves of change ripple through her; resizing and realigning her bones into a new configuration. Now were once a woman stood there’s a powerful sleek mountain lion (hardly native to the area but she’s beyond caring) stretching out a few lingering kicks before loping off in the direction of Vienna. There’s a compass hanging from its chain like a collar around the beast’s neck and a medium sized knapsack, holding on with the help of straps around each forelimb and a girth around the animal’s middle, bouncing along on the lion’s back; like some parody of a jockey.

When she finally sees her X-Men at the rondevu point just outside Vienna she cannot find the words to describe how ecstatic, how _relieved_ she is. For the longest time all she can do is touch them; confirming, for her own peace of mind, that they _are_ real and reassuring them that she **is** alive. It isn’t until the jet is over the ocean, its nose firmly pointed towards home, that she feels safe enough to start talking about what happened. She fills Xavier in on everything she’s ever heard about the assassin. All the rumors and half whispers, any scrap of information could be proven relevant if given the right context. When she’s finished doing that she takes the time to sit down with each of them individually and listen to their reactions to feeling her die. Avery’s been careful to avoid unnecessary ‘incidents’ ever since she bonded with Charles in ’02. They're all breaking new ground here and she fervently wishes there was no need for this.

“Ah’ve seen Logan shot in the head and get back up again before but Ah never knew what it would feel like. It’s like that every time?”

There’s defiantly been some damage done. She squares her shoulders and sets about the painstaking task of repairing their scorched bonds. Later, when the eastern coast is firmly in sight and both Rogue and Kurt have gotten over their alarm (Hank, familiar with the workings of his own healing factor, had a easier time accepting what happened. Xavier is a little harder to judge, until he brushes his own psyche against hers; it soothes both of them) she joins Charles in the cockpit.

“Will you come back to the Institute?”

“Not right away, I need to prove to Phil that I’m alive first.” He nods sagely at that, in complete agreement with that course of action.

“Afterwards?”

“Depends, who's currently in residence?”

“Why do you insist on avoiding meeting Logan? Is it because he’s like” – 

She cuts him off with a glance and where normally the Professor would push he’s learned not to test her when she has drawn a line in the sand. Avery’s heard enough about the Wolverine over the years to know he shares her mutation, and although he’s a great deal younger than her, he has been just as cursed when it comes to longevity and Fate's twisted game of I’ll-hide-and-you’ll- go-a-seeking your soulmate. She doesn’t feel the need to commiserate with him over a couple of beers like Charles obviously thinks they should. Besides she's met the brother, Creed, and she could have done without that. Still Charles's has been waging a not so subtle campaign to get her to pal around with the adamantium laced berserker for a handful of years now. Avery hasn't bothered to be gentle in her refusal.

“He’s not there.”

“I’ll be by in a week, at most.”

“We’ll drop you off in DC.”

Avery has a handful of hours to spare before her self-imposed deadline of 48 hours is spent when she shows up on Coulson’s doorstep. Phil greats her with an open dictionary and a flinty glare in his steel-blue eyes, whatever he’s feeling has been hidden behind the polite competence of Phillip J. Coulson Agent of SHIELD. She is surprised by how much it stings.

“The definition of _’fine’_ as you were using it is ‘in a satisfactory or pleasing manner; very well’. I’ll have you know what happened thirty-six hours ago was most defiantly not **‘fine’**.” Obediently she hangs her head and waits for the tirade she so richly deserves. He takes her completely off-guard when he slams the book shut and pulls her into a fierce embrace.

“Don’t ever do _anything_ like that to me **ever** again.” He grabs her shoulders and shakes her to emphasize his point. Phil then hugs her again one hand twisting up in the cloth between her shoulder blades the other cradling the back of her head.

“God Avery, I thought my heart would stop! I was in a sitrep with Barton,” he mutters into her hair, “had a hell of a lot of fast talking to do when the words flashed back to black.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t really one of those boring official debriefs you’re so fond of but some actual sexy times,” she moans flippantly trying to alleviate the tension. Phil slaps her playfully for her efforts. Avery counts that as a success.

“Is that what it feels like every time one of us leaves you?” 

Avery expected the question but that did not mean she was prepared to answer it. She pulls away from him and shrugs in response. He starts to pace the length of his living room.

“How can you,” he starts but doesn’t finish that one. 

She sits calmly on the edge of his oak coffee table and splits her attention between watching Phil and admiring the tasteful display of his Captain America memorabilia.

“What exactly happened?”

“Sniper caught me right between the eyes.” She keeps the explanation short partially to spare him the gory details but mostly knowing he could put the pieces together on his own. Noticing the decidedly greenish-gray cast to his skin Avery attempts another joke; “Must be getting rusty if I let some whelp get the drop on me.”

“Too soon,” he admonishes her but his complexion no longer looks so ominously waxy, so she counts it as another success.

“Why, Avery, why do you still find us? How can you bare to even _bond_ with us? You know how this,” he gestures curtly at himself, “plays out. Your soul must be in shredded bloody tatters by now, how can you tolerate it?” He’s staring at her demanding an answer and she thinks she has one to give him.

“I tolerate it boyo because Fate brings ye back tae me. Shredded ye say, perhaps, bit ma soul nivver stays yon wye fur lang. Fykie as she may be Fate gives back mair nor fit she takes. Tis a blessing an a curse Phil an I wis morn tae withstand it.” 

Without conscious thought she’s dropped back into the Doric dialect of her bygone youth. Phil’s brows scrunch together as he attempts to navigate his way through her suddenly thick accent. Avery’s only ever allowed the natural brogue to slip in and pepper her speech before now, and only on a few rare occasions, she just served up a whole plate of it and it is not surprising Phil’s having a hard time digesting what she’s telling him. 

“I fair go un’erstn if ye hiv had second thoughts noo” –

“You’re still **my** _soulmate_ Avery; I could never regret sharing a bond with you. Just promise me this won’t happen again.”

“I cannot gaur yon promise Phil,” she won’t lie to him and she won’t give him false hope. They’ve been lucky so far; it won’t hold out forever, “bit I ah’ll endeavor tae div aa I can tae prevent it.”

“Do you know who or why?”

“I don’t ken fit wye,” she admits with a grimace, “bit I ken fa. It wis the Winter Soldier.”

He looks like he wants to scoff at that; the intelligence community has been indoctrinated with ghost stories about the Winter Soldier since the Cold War. Most don’t give them any credibility those who do know better; unfortunately, they’re usually too dead to do anything about it. Luckily, Phil knows better than to doubt Avery.

Thankfully as the year progresses they all manage to recover from ' **The Incident** ’ as it’s come to be known. Avery is very much aware of just how much they skirted the edges of disaster. All five of them could have decided to reject their platonic bonds with her, and although it would have killed her – metaphorically, if not physically – she would have respected their wishes. It is an immense relief that instead of ripping her away from her soulmates **The Incident** brought them all closer together. Her bond with each and every one of them is all the stronger now for being tested.

Not wanting to take advantage of that small boon, Avery quadruples her security efforts. She stays in the States and makes a point of checking in, in person and over the phone, more often than she had before. Things start to even out and return to normal; at least the version of normal she was accustomed too. The only lasting impact, other than strengthen their bonding, was Phil no longer attempted to recruit her. Not even as a playful joke. He’s figured out why she wants nothing to do with SHIELD. (It’s not her only reason but it certainly tops the list).

When SHIELD finds Captain Rogers entombed in a glacier for the last seventy odd years and _miraculously_ still **alive** Phil calls her the second he can. He’s as giddy as a school boy as he recounts the tale and if he were any less of an agent he’d be jumping up and down in his excitement. As it is Avery can easily picture him nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet doing that abortive shuffle step – his only tell – as they talk.

_”I_ saw **him** _Avery. He’s real. We really found him. Captain-_ freaking _-America.”_ She can hear the joy filled fan boy squealing and expletives of shock Phil doesn’t allow himself in the spaces between each breath. Avery does not bother hiding her delight in Coulson’s elation and she’s equally pleased as he is for Rogers’s safe return home. Although it does not stop her from thinking what a rude awakening the poor man was in for or from lamenting all he’s lost. When he went down he was only twenty-seven and the world was at war; he had a hell of a lot of catching up to do and a hell of a lot of grieving. Avery keeps those thoughts to herself, however, she did not have it in her to be _that_ person and ruin this for Phil.

Afterwards she rifles through each of her multiple homes for every last stich of Captain America memorabilia she can find. Avery’s given him pieces for his collection before; commiserated with him about the difficulties of finding quality collectables; even put him in touch with a couple of reputable sellers. It’s something she’s always meant to do and how she’s determined. Once she’s finished searching every hidden nook and cranny of her various properties, she’s astounded by the size of the small mountain of Captain America and Howling Commando related things she has managed to stockpile without ever being aware of doing so. A great deal of it is in fairly good nick while the majority is in practically mint condition. It’s impressive, really, especially when one takes into account the fact that she spent the war years locked up and tormented by German scientist in a concentration camp. By the time the Allies liberated her camp Rogers was already MIA presumed dead. Avery must have started picking up the things here and there in late ’45 and the following decades.

For his birthday that year she mails Phil the last trading card he needed – and has proven to be an elusive bitch to find in good condition – to complete his vintage set. She does not sign her name nor does she send a note. He shows his appreciation for the gift by stopping by to see her in person, a rare treat. (Since Stark’s conversion from tabloid bad boy darling to hero of the hour Fury has kept Phil constantly busy. There was some ruckus in Mexico and at Culver University then in Harlem that she wasn’t supposed to know anything about. Besides she’s taken to rotating between living at the Institute and some of her more remotely located homes in an even more convoluted schedule than what she followed prior to ’08. He’s never quite sure where to find her and its pure luck he manages to catch up to her this time). Truthfully, it’s Avery who is grateful, both for the chance to see him and to reaffirm their platonic bond. As he leaves she jokingly advises;

“If you ever have the chance to speak with him ask Captain Rogers to sign the damn things. I’ll never hear the end of it if you have that opportunity and don’t take advantage of it.” With a laugh Phil promises her that he will, he’ll even do her one better and get Rogers to autograph a printed selfie of the two of them together. He’ll mail her a framed copy.

When the writing on her hand fades away from black to gray and aliens invade the sky above Manhattan, Avery regrets that those are the last words she will ever say to him.

Bereft she flees back to Westchester seeking the comfort that only the physical presence of her four remaining soulmates can offer. The steady rhythm of their heartbeats, resting just beneath and working in tandem with her own, may tell her that they still live; Avery finds it far more reassuring to see and touch them for herself. She is still there, still mourning Phil, five days after the Battle for New York when that traitorous reminder of him shifts back from gray to glossy black.

Aghast, Avery wastes half a day just staring at the back of her hand. She knows exactly what that means. She just never expected to find herself standing on this side of that particular equation. _Phil is alive....._ Somehow, in some way, Phil has been restored to her. Avery’s elation is swift and fierce.

Which only makes the anger-tinged despair she crashes into all the more bleaker.

She waits, her nerves dangling on tenterhooks, for Phil to contact her. Avery wants to fully embrace her sudden good fortune; but she wants more concrete proof of life then the unexpected restoration of his words. She **wants** to _see_ Phil at the very least she’ll settle for hearing his voice. Things remain suspiciously silent and Avery careens into a bleak dismal depression as the days morph into months then stretch on into a year. There’s not much the others can do to raise her spirits and soon her dark mood starts to take its toll on them. The realization that she’s poisoning everything she holds dear spurs Avery into action. If Phil won’t come to her then she will just have to make her way to him. She’ll flush him out from wherever it is he’s hidden himself and after reassuring herself that he is indeed her Phil she’s going to rip him a new one. _The_ jackass, _it’s the least he deserves for keeping me in suspense._

Avery’s sitting in Xavier’s office when she dials the number Phil asked her to memorize but only use in dire emergencies; in her mind tracking down her errant soulmate counts as a dire emergency. Supposedly it’s a direct secure line to the Director of SHIELD himself and Avery has no reservations about forcing the man to explain things to her satisfaction. She’s positive that Nick Fury is behind Phil’s unusual radio silence; Avery has begun to suspect the Director is behind Phil’s miraculous recovery as well. That won’t save him from feeling the full force of her resentment, however. She’s not inclined to be in a forgiving mood. When the operator prompts her to code in she rattles off a security code as old as the agency itself. (She wasn’t lying when she told Phil she knew all about SHIELD). The call is transferred through, immediately, and once the other end is picked up she’s off like a shot.

“Where the hell is he?” She grounds out her voice held at a reasonable volume but made terrifying by the ferociousness she’s barely keeping in check. “You tell me where you’ve _feckin’_ stashed Phil Coulson or so help me God, I will come down there and personally teach you the _true_ meaning of pain, you bloody pirate. I think I’ll start by ripping out your only functioning eyeball.”

“If you hadn’t refused to be brought in when Coulson was sent to recruit you, you’d have the appropriate clearance and access to that information. _Unfortunately_ I’m not at liberty to discuss such things with you, good day Ms. Wallace.”

Hearing someone else point out exactly what she’s been berating herself for hits her like a slap in the face. A slap in the face that’s followed up by a punch to the gut when she recognizes those words as the same ones snaking their way down the back of her calf. The revelation that Fury is soulmate circa 1951 does nothing to curb her rage; instead, it inflames it.

“I have other means of getting what I want; this was just a curtsey call – a chance for you to wise up and do the smart thing. You’d do well to remember boy,” she’s snarling now not bothering to hide the animal behind even a thin veneer of civility. Her voice drops a full octave, reverberating with all the menace of an oncoming storm, “exactly what I am. **Do _not_** get between _me_ and **mine** you will not live long enough to appreciate the gravity of your mistake.”

She slams the receiver down terminating the call savagely and with great effort resists sweeping the phone off Xavier’s desk, yanking out the hard line, and hurling the accursed thing across the room. Avery pictures herself doing just that instead and the little fantasy brings a serene smile to her lips; it’s the furthest from angelic one could get.

She does not need to look at Rogue and Charles to know she’s thoroughly scandalized them – Avery can feel it in the racing cadence of their heartbeats whilst they struggle against the natural instinct to flea danger. They are X-Men, they’re her X-men, and she knows that they will master the (perfectly reasonable) flight or fight response but she does not want to wait them out. Taking in their expressions with the edge of her vision Avery notices the tell-tale signs of startled prey – widen eyes, open mouths, quick breaths, and an unnatural stillness – the hunter in her stirs and she leaves the study before she does something truly unforgivable.

Avery locks herself up in the Danger Room and releases the full ferocity of her rage on unsuspecting training bots. She loses track of time as she immerses herself in the primal rush of the hunt – stalk, pounce, _kill_.

Hank comes to collect her afterwards; when she’s standing trembling with both physical and emotional exhaustion, a resigned epicenter in the wake of a tsunami. He does not say anything, just comes to stand beside her. She is grateful for his silence. An ill-timed remark would only set her off again. He waits patiently until her shoulders finally droop and her head bows; she’s done trying to save her pride. 

Hank scoops her up then, carrying her like a lost child, and turns his back on the havoc she wrought. He takes her to the locker room and sets her down – still fully clothed – under the spray of a cool shower. He gives the cool water a few moments to lower her body temperature then turns the dial to something comfortably lukewarm and peals the sodden, ruin, clothing off her. Avery makes no move to help in his efforts nor does she protest his briskly tender treatment of her. She simply stands underneath the shower head and allows Hank to do as he sees fit.

An involuntary whine escapes him at the sight of her bare body and its mural of molted soul marks. She’s eased up on concealing them in the past few years, loosing most of her shyness and no longer taking such extreme measures to hide them. She still puts concealer on those on her face but she only dresses in multiple layers and cover-up her hands when she’s among strangers (which isn’t often any more). Still, this is the first time he’s ever seen her completely naked.

Avery cannot blame Hank. It’s one thing to understand, intellectually, just how high of a price she has paid; it’s another to come face to face with the stark reality. Frankly this particular confrontation was overdue. She managed to skirt the edges of it with them back in ’08, thankfully. Avery would not have survived a two pronged attack from them _and_ Phil, it took enough out of her facing down that demon with Coulson.

She stands there pliant to his ministrations because she knows, in this moment; taking care of her is the best (only) way he can cope. She lets him wash the sweat and grime out of her fur, leaning into his touch as he chases away muscle cramps and purring softly when he massages then rinses shampoo into and out of her hair. Allowing him to do those things for her is the best thing she can do for Hank in return. Hank needs this, more than she does, so she permits it.

Other than Hank’s occasional soft whine the shower is completed in a shroud of silence. Before long he’s shutting off the water and briskly toweling her dry. He leads her out of the shower stall and Avery is dimly aware that her normally graceful movements are sluggish and stumbling. She leans heavily against Hank’s comforting bulk and lets her eyes slip shut for a second. Blinking them open as Hank pulls a soft Mutant High Class of ’04 hoodie down over her head only to flutter closed again as her nostrils take in the scent of jasmine, vanilla, and wintersweet – the unique blend of smells that her mind instantly identifies as _Rogue_. She’s breathing that in and it sooths her further even as Hank bends down – placing one of her hands on his shoulder to steady her – and coaxes first one leg then another into a pair of navy sweatpants with the X-Men emblem running down the leg. 

Avery finds herself staring at the back of her right hand and the miraculously restored soul mark that clued her into Phil’s resurrection. This time it’s from Avery’s throat a sharp pain filled whine escapes.

Hanks there in a flash, cupping her face between his two strong hands resting their foreheads together and letting their breath mingle until Avery steadies herself. Intertwined with Hank’s scent of natural disinfectant, loam, and ink is Xavier’s signature smell of old books, cedar, and tea. Its Charles’s sweats and Rogue’s hoodie Hank has dressed her in and that knowledge sooths her right back into her post shower stupor.

He waits long enough to reassure himself that she’s not about to fall apart on him before propping her up against a bank of lockers. She slumps there, a fair imitation of human shaped putty, as Hank quickly changes out of his own soaked clothing and into a dry pair of sweats. He does not bother to put on a shirt, just towels off his blued furred torso with a through efficiency. 

When he’s done he picks her up again and she curls into his embrace. Hank carries her out of the sub-basement and up to the set of rooms that have always belonged to her even if she was not always in residence. Kurt and Rogue are there waiting for them. Sitting on the bed; Kurt cross-legged and dead center, Rogue perched firmly in a back corner, like a pair of lost puppies. 

Beast protectively deposits her in the middle of the mattress before leaving to close the bedroom door and open the balcony door to the crisp spring breeze. Kurt is on her like a limpet; twinning his prehensile tail about a leg, practically turning himself inside out, whilst cocooning her in a bouquet of brimstone, chocolate, and leather that could only belong to him. When he’s finally satisfied with his arrangements Avery’s lying half on top of him, head pillowed on his shoulder and the tip of his tail stroking her calf (inside the hem of her sweats) in small encouraging circles. She lets her eyelids fall so her gaze is hooded; like a cat who’s gotten into the cream.

She squeaks a protest as the mattress dips heralding Hanks return and feels more than hears his easygoing chuckle at her complaining and the acrobat’s antics. He settles the expanse of his comforting bulk against her exposed side, winding his arms around her waist and holding fast. Rogue waits until the three of them stop shifting before arraigning herself at the foot of the bed. She’s gained some control over the years but is still hyper aware of the hazard her bare skin represented – particularly when asleep and no longer in conscious control – she slings just one sweat pant clad leg, with the end securely tucked into a thick woolly sock, over the six of theirs.

Slowly, bathed in the scents of her soulmates and supported by the physical contact of the three, Avery starts to drift off into a doze. At the gentle mental caress from Charles she gives up the ghost and falls into a peaceful slumber.

When she wakes its to the diminishing radiance of sunset and the points of contact between her and the boys have reduced in number. Hank still has one arm slung across her hip and Kurt has rolled out from underneath her taking a hand with him. He endearingly has it nestled underneath his cheek. Rogue’s foot is resting against the back of one of Avery’s legs. (Just as it should be for platonic soulmates seeking comfort in each other, touch was a necessity but not the all-consuming need found in a non-platonic bond).

Careful not to disturb any of them she gradually extracts her hand from Kurt’s vise like grasp. Once it is free she flexes it a few times to rid it of the pins and needles thrumming under her skin. Stretching languidly like a cat she rolls out from under Hank’s arm and over Rogue’s foot to kneel in the middle of the bed. Turning her head towards the balcony she locks eyes with Charles; golden gaze dancing with silent amusement matching his own blue-hued regard. She smoothly rocks up onto her feet without disturbing her bed fellows. Then Avery simply jumps from the center of the bed down to the floor, landing so softly on the balls of her feet that Hank and Kurt’s little duet of snores never falters.

She joins Charles out on the balcony chuckling softly under her breath. Feeling remarkable kittenish, Avery skips up to the Professor and plants a kiss on the crown of his bald head. Then pulls up a lawn chair alongside his wheel chair, joining him in his quiet contemplation; he’s picked the best angle to give them a view of the bedrooms’ slumbering occupants and to catch the last rays of the falling sun over the Mansions sprawling woodlands.

Without thinking about it Charles scoops up her hand and holds it loosely in his lap; his thumb gently rubbing at a small corner of Phil’s words. She wonders if he thinks she should pull away at the touch, if she considers this an invasion of her privacy, and that’s why he’s careful to keep his grip slack. It would certainly explain the hesitation in the strokes of his thumb. Resolutely Avery keeps her hand where he put it; she’s not wholly comfortable with him touching words that are not his own but it’s not always about _her **comfort**_. _’Sides not like they are easy to avoid; they’re my bloody version of tiger stripes._

“I was beginning to suspect you’d sleep through the night,” he breaks the silence, a note of contemplation in his soft voice, “and was starting to wonder if I’d dare wake you or not.” 

She snorts with mirth at that.

“Mair like ye were wunner jis fit much blackmail a picter fair go be worth, an if ye cwid get away wi takkin ae .” The Doric comes more naturally to her in moments like this; she’s learning to stop quashing it when it slips out.

“Perhaps,” he replies archly a smile hovering about the corners of his mouth. Avery laughs openly for a moment.

“Honestly I think I’ve come up with a way for you to find Phil,” he admits and she beams a genuine smile at him.

“Kent I cwid cont on ye laddie.”

Charles’s plan is brilliant in its simplicity; Cerebro.

For very good reasons Xavier has hesitated to use the machine to locate average humans over the years. Chief among them is the risk of concentrating too hard and accidentally killing the subject of his search, (Magneto tested that unfortunate consequence for them) but runner up was the fact that there was really nothing distinctive enough about their brainwaves to capture, and keep, his attention. Unlike mutants, their unique powers and the chaos caused by a power’s sudden revelation propelled their thoughts at him. This time however, Charles was positive he could locate Phil because of Avery and her connection to him.

Avery has enough talent as a telepath to naturally have reached out and sampled Coulson’s thoughts each time she saw him. She would have done it without thinking, without even noticing what she’d done since he was already joined to her through their soulmate bond. This meant Avery knew, intimately, the unique signature of Coulson’s mind and Xavier believed that is she projected that ‘signature’ whilst he operated Cerebro then, together, they would find Phil. Hank calculates the odds for them and their chances for success are so high that Avery chafes at any suggestion of delay. Working in tandem with Charles it does not take long to pin down Phil’s location. She does not need to look at the map reference on Hank’s monitors to know where the coordinates lead. 

“I know the place, its SHIELD’s Academy of Science and Technology.” Her voice is carefully neutral. Only Charles picks up on the significance of her lack of inflection.

“Perfect Ah’ll go ready the jet.” 

She snags Rogue’s elbow in a bruising grip as the girl walks past her.

“Did ye nae hear me lass _?!?_ Yon is their sodding _science **Academy!**_ I’m nae leading ye aire like lambs tae be slaughtered.” She finishes giving her limb a shake before releasing it.

“Avery,” Hank tries to be the voice of reason, “its SHIELD, it’s not like they’re HYDRA.”

“Maist days I ah’m nae convinced. Doesn’t matter whilk side i’ the law they think they darg fur I don’t trust their ambitions.” He’s not about to persuade her otherwise and he can see that in the set of her jaw. “Besides I putten a great deal i’ darg inta keeping SHEILD oot i’ mutant affairs nae tae hiv tham ging bumbling aboot an feckin' wi things noo.”

“Fair enough,” Charles agrees and she narrows her eyes at his easy capitulation, “Kurt can take you there.” He holds up a pleading hand to stall her objections, “If you want to reach the Academy before he disappears on you then that’s your best option.”

“I might not have access to top secret government satellites,” Hank adds; siding with Charles, “but my set up is certainly no MapQuest. We can plot out accurate, safe, landing zones and have Kurt drop you in a secluded spot right on campus. And if for some reason I can’t hack their security feeds you know Kitty _can_ ; she’d be happy to help.”

She cannot argue with their logic and, damn them, they know it. So she agrees to their plans. If she does so a bit begrudgingly than that’s only to be expected – she has to keep up appearances after all. Its part of the game they play, her X-Men express their affection with kindhearted gestures and she scoffs at them to cover up how much it truly touches her. Others might think her a cold, unfeeling bitch but Avery could not care less. Her soulmates understood her quirky mannerisms and the reasons behind them; she developed them out of self-defense, to keep herself sane in a situation that should have driven her 'round the bend.

In no time everything is planned down to the last detail and the storm tossed devastation they see through the Academy’s security feeds only hardens Avery’s resolve to get there ASAP. She doesn’t protest when Kurt pulls her tight and whisks her away with a ‘bampf’ and the smell of sulfur. Several jerky mile-devouring jumps later he’s touching down in a blind spot of a security camera behind the bins of a cafeteria.

“I vill stay and vait for you.”

“Yon is sweet i’ ye lad bit ye’ll ging back like we planned Kurt.”

“Nein mein Schatz,” she smiles at his refusal. It never ceases to amaze her how endearing she finds his lingering German accent and his habit of slipping into his mother tongue. To think that once, not so long ago, it served as a trigger for panic attacks.

“Ja mein Engel,” Avery counters leaning forward and rubbing her nose alongside his. “It ah’ll be aa richt.”

“If you need me.”

“I ken.” With another ‘bampf’ he’s gone and she takes a bracing inhale of the lingering murk of sulfuric brimstone that’s so essentially Kurt.

Avery takes a second to focus on the fluttering discordance that’s marred Phil’s heartbeat ever since his return to life. Their bond is in disarray –cannibalizing itself in an effort to stabilize – and will only continue to sicken the longer they go without reaffirming it. As it decays Avery’s own health will follow suit until the bond dissipates entirely. Its not a pleasant process to either witness or endure and she does not want to put anyone through **that** emotional gauntlet. In a lot of ways having a soulmate bond severed abruptly by death, although traumatizing enough in some case to cause the remaining bond members physical harm – including death – was preferable. Avery knows he’s not doing to this to her intentionally (most likely). Phil can’t feel, can’t assess, the state of their bond to the same degree as her; Avery has centuries of experience on him. (If when she finally gets a chance to speak to him and he makes the conscious, informed, choice to dissolve their bond then she’ll let what has already started finish. This would not be the first time she’s broken a bond at the behest of a soulmate and she doubted it would be the last).

Following the pull of his heart on hers, Avery is led across the storm wrecked campus to an open parking lot. In the middle of the lot she spies a specialized modified Boeing C-17 Globemaster III with a couple of SHIELD vehicles hovering by its open cargo bay. She waits hidden, until they drive out of sight then watches the plane a while longer trying to suss out what she can about its occupants at a distance. She’s not learning much. Giving it up as a lost cause Avery leaves her post and approaches the air craft. She’s not trying for stealth and is disappointed by how far she manages to make it onto the craft before she’s challenged:  
“Stop right there or I’ll shoot.” A male voice demands and Avery freezes in the middle of the cargo bay.

In front of her behind glass walls is some sort of portable lab, to her back is one standard government issued SUV and Lola. Slanting a side-eye to her right she finds her challenger standing half way up the access stairs, weapon drawn. He gives her an obvious once over and she sees it the minute he categorizes her as unimportant. She’s wearing stone washed skinny jeans tucked into vintage Doc Martens, a Rolling Stones t-shirt covered by a navy flannel button down, and leather fingerless gloves; she looks like some co-ed who took a wrong turn stumbling home from a one night stand. He’s trying to glare her into submission and Avery could not be less impressed. She gives him a once over of her own and notes he’s broodingly handsome, probably has the whole dark & mysterious, wounded hero seduction routine down pat. 

Avery locks gazes with Mr. Tall, Dark, & Damaged and lets her lips twist up into a contemptuous smile. It’s rewarding to see his grip tighten around the handle of the gun. She huffs out a disdainful chuckle and holds her ground. Avery does not recognize the make of his weapon or its ammunition and she’s not sure just how touchy his trigger finger is – its caution, not any sense of respect, that keeps her still.

With a dismissive flicker of those golden orbs her focus shifts to the third presence in the cargo hold. Before she had had unfettered access to the lab, now an Oriental woman has purposefully blocked her path, all the while looking as if containing her to the cargo bay was accidental. Whereas the man wasn’t worth the notice Avery would spare a slug, the woman demanded the mutants full attention. Avery instantly recognizes the spirit of a fellow warrior in the steady honey-brown stare. Her frame may be petite – compared to Avery – but you’d be a fool, possibly a dead fool, to underestimate her. Avery made a habit out of not being a fool.

The three of them stood there locked in a silent tableau; the woman a waiting coiled spring, the boy a raw seething nerve, and the mutant a languid jungle cat. Avery could stay there in that Mexican standoff all day without breaking a sweat; it wasn’t in her nature to be the first to cave. She had her money pegged on the boy.

“Who are you?” Whelp growls out attempting to intimidate her but just sounding petulant. _Winner, winner chicken dinner._

“I’m looking for Phil Coulson, heard of him?” She counters indifferently gaze lazily drifting back to give him another disdainful once over.

“How do you know Coulson?”

“Classified,” she offers unhelpfully then dismissing him entirely addresses Warrior directly; “I am here for Phil, I won’t be leaving until I speak with him,” if she had not been focusing solely on the Asian woman she would have missed the sharp inhale of recognition. “Although,” Avery continued her expression becoming wolfish, “you’re welcome to _try_ and shift me.”

“I can take you to Phil,” Warrior offers, her voice the smooth edge of tempered steel. There’s nothing threatening about it but there’s nothing yielding either.

“Somehow I had a feeling you’d see things my way.” Avery murmurs; it will be her only acknowledgement of the words while they have company. _So this is 1966_ ; she’s not disappointed.

With an acknowledging nod of her own, Warrior motions for Whelp to stand down; he does so reluctantly. A part of her – the small portion that can appreciate his professionalism – does not blame Whelp for his hesitancy. She’s an unknown variable and that makes her dangerous. If he had any idea just **how** dangerous she _was_ he’d shoot on sight, if he had any sense of self preservation. The rest of her is torn between amusement and telling him to feckin’ piss off.

Avery is led through the well-appointed command center up to an office on the top deck. The guided tour to Phil wasn’t necessary, she could easily follow his pull, but she’s trying to build bridges not burn them. The techy staccato cadence that has become Phil’s hallmark lies just a few feet away from her; pumping life supporting blood throughout its source, and her impatience is boundless. Warrior stands in the doorway, taking up a surprising amount of space and blocking Avery’s view (she wants to growl in frustration but reins it in), and then raps smartly on the door frame.

“May,” a sorely missed tenor issues forth and it’s all Avery can do to clamp down on and swallow a relieved whimper.

“Visitor for you,” she tells him promptly, stepping aside so Avery can join her in the doorway. If her appearance surprises him he doesn’t show it.

“Thank you Agent May,” it’s a clear dismissal. May steps back as Avery steps forward and the door closes between them.

He’s leaning (with forced poise) against the front of a desk, arms crossed, blue gaze cautiously guarded; she stands rooted to the spot, golden eyes drinking him in, her whole body twanging with repressed emotions. They stay that way for a while; neither willing to make the first move or break the silence. Both fearing they had stumbled into a dream and to move would be to wake from it. For once it’s Avery who yields first. 

With just three long strides she’s in Phil’s personal space; he’s anticipated her and opened his arms; grabbing tight she hugs him fiercely. Avery tucks her face into the crook of his neck – indifferent to the tears – scenting along the artery found there and inhales the welcome aroma of ground coffee, gun powder, and Old Spice aftershave. That more than anything else convinces her he’s really **alive**.

“I feared ye gid wehre I cwid nae follow ,” she admits slipping into Doric for the confession, not bothering to hide how her voice falters and cracks.

“I did,” he’s raw with unspoken feeling.

“Tell me about it,” she’s not asking out of curiosity.

He moves away from her, reluctantly she lets him, and sits in a nearby arm chair. Without invitation she perches on the left hand armrest and curls her body around him. His head is resting on her chest and her head rests on top of his. A curtain of tawny hair falls forward, screening their faces and behind its scant protection Phil starts to tell her everything that he knows. Loki stabbing him through the heart, what it felt like and how his murder spurred the Avengers into action (as if that somehow justified it); then waking up in a hospital room thinking he had only coded for 40 seconds tops. What he has been doing since medical cleared him, all about the Bus and his new team and the trauma behind the terrible revelation of the lie that was Tahiti. The horrible truth that instead of 40 seconds he had been dead for 5 _days_ , woodenly he recites everything he has memorized from the death and recovery reports, all the devastating unthinkable details about the drastic measures taken to save him.

When he mentions GH-325 the rage that’s been slowly simmering since he started talking threatens to boil over. Avery throttles it ruthlessly. So far she’s learned nothing about Fury that makes her want to like him; what he’s put Phil through has only increased her ill-will towards the man. Knowing that he had the utter gall to use GH-325 just pounds the final nail in his coffin. (Avery knows what GH stands for, more importantly she knows what’s _housed_ there. She has a flicker of panic wondering if she should come clean to Phil but quickly decides against it. There’s no socially acceptable way to inform a loved one that their miracle cure was thanks to alien blood. She’ll probably end up regretting that choice later).

“I’m sick of the secrets,” he finishes. _Yup, defiantly regretting that life choice, among others._

As he talked he had pulled her right hand out of its fingerless glove and was now holding it within his left hand; lining up the words on his palm with those on the back of hers. The physical contact between the two soul marks reinstates their bond. Avery’s not ashamed of the contented purr that escapes her as his techy heartbeat becomes the reliably steady _dub-lub, lub-thumb_ she’s been missing. Phil chuckles and her purring deepens. 

“It was starting to splinter,” he admits nearly whispering, “I could feel it making me sick but thought it was my imagination. I wasn’t sure and did not know how to contact you.”

She’s startled into giggling at her own shock over his astute observation. He bloody well would notice and then second guess himself.

“Doesn’t matter I sought ye oot.” Her brogue is fading as she manages to regain her composure.

“That you did,” he agrees highly amused – it does nothing to hide his own relief. “How did you track me down?”

The overly innocent way he approaches that question makes her metaphorical ears perk up even as she answers; “Started with a phone call to your Director then when that went south I regrouped and used my head. Well, Charles’s head, specifically; turned out to be the more profitable option.”

“Went that badly with the Director, eh?” She can practically taste the mischief in him with that question.

“You knew.”

“Regulations, whenever an agent’s soul mark directly relates to another operative its noted in both their files.” She scoffs dismissively at that bit of obsessive bureaucracy. Although it probably guaranteed that he already knew about May’s mark. “You know, for someone who complained about the amount of words I left on her, you tend to be rather verbose Avery.”

“Privilege of age,” she quips cheekily. Then growing serious, “The man might be a friend of yours but I don’t care for him much; even if he is one of mine.”

“He’s my other platonic.”

“Uh, no **P** e still don’t like him.”

“Note to self: don’t mention the cards,” he murmurs under his breath knowing she’d hear. _Yeah, moving him to the top of the shit list now._

“What about Barton, does he know?” Phil’s silence is telling. She rubs her cheek through his thinning hair both to sooth them and to remind herself not to fly off the rails. “You have to tell him something.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Try; ‘Hello, I’m not dead, I miss you, I love you, let’s shag like bunnies then get take-out, still like Indian?’.”

“Something tells me that’s not going to fly,” he remarks with a weak chuckle.

“You can’t just leave him dangling Phil. That Hawk of yours is more observant than the average bear, he’s bound to notice the return of the words not to mention sense you through the bond.”

“We never bonded. You’re the only one I’ve bonded with,” Phil admits. She pulls away from him enough to search his face and confirm what he’s telling her. She’s not surprised, but she is saddened.

“What damn fool thing made ye think that wis a good idea?”

“We were thinking about it but then The Incident happened. I could not be selfish and ask him to risk experiencing **_that_**.”

“You think me selfish.”

“ _No!_ I don’t have your strength Ave, I cannot face the idea of having him then losing him.”

“I think you give yourself too little credit Phil. And you’re doing a grave disservice to you both by not completing the bond. He’s your romantic **match** Phil, your _soulmate_ \- you were Fated for each other.”

“Easy for you to say Avery you only have platonic bonds.”

The bitterness is thick in his throat so much so she’s amazed he doesn’t choke on it. She recoils slightly at his accusation and bites her tongue to keep herself from saying something deplorable in retaliation. It would be unfair of her and hypocritical in the extreme, he doesn’t know any better – she never told him about Abraham and the twenty-dozen before; she’s still playing things close to her chest. Instead she deflects with humor distracting them both:

“You never know Phil, perhaps Agent May will be the one,” she purrs archly. He sputters and coughs, choking on nothing but air.

“You and _May **?!?** ”_ Avery throws her head back and laughs freely in a way she hasn’t done since Phil’s death.

Later, once the bond is firmly, properly, seated again he offers to give her the official tour. She follows about politely voicing the appropriate exclamations of awe and praise when expected whilst keeping a running commentary under her breath about the fortune she could make if she sold the blueprints to Playboy. “I can picture the slogan now, _‘Come fly the friendly skies with a Bunny in your lap on Playboy Air the_ official _home of the mile high club.’_ She embellishes that with a suggestive groan and Phil’s master agent mask nearly cracks. He’s already lost any claim to some kind of moral superiority or maturity; judging by the way his blue eyes twinkle roguishly. It would be safe to say that _finally_ having all five of her soulmates heartbeats simpatico again has left her giddy with elation. She loves each of their _extraordinarily **ordinary**_ souls with a fierce passion that staggers her in its intensity. If the way she flew off the rails at Coulson’s brief separation was any indication…well, Avery fervently hopes that when the last of them finally passes beyond her reach that the world was already on fire; otherwise she just might be the one to set it ablaze.

In addition to the tour Phil formally introduces her to the team he had only just gave her the rundown on in private. Good manners being a hallmark of her character Avery automatically extends her hand to shake Agent Ward’s at their official greeting. He smiles politely and makes an apologetic crack about pulling a gun on her, if he had _known_ she was a friend of Coulson’s he never would have done so. His manners are appealing enough but they strike her as superficial; there’s something about him that makes her want to hiss and unsheathe her claws. She continues to refer to him as Whelp in the privacy of her own thoughts.

In comparison Skye is very much a breath of fresh air. The girl is a charming little package of sass and intelligence, with brown doe-eyes fully capable of devastation when turned up to eleven. Avery has no trouble seeing exactly how the girl – unintentionally– plucked at Phil’s heartstrings, stirred up every last one of his paternal instincts, then promptly wrapped him around her littler finger. If ever there was a man born for fatherhood it had been Phil (in that way he reminded her of Abraham). He’d made up for his lack of biological children by taking in strays; Barton – who turned out to be something else entirely – the Widow, Stark, and quite possibly the rest of the Avengers (if given the chance) even Avery herself. Skye was just one more lost chick Phil’s taken in out of the cold and sheltered under his wing. _The mair the merrier._

Skye & Whelp join them as Phil leads her below to explore the on board laboratories. He introduces her to FitzSimmons who smile a greeting at her and she offers a polite nod of her head in reply.

“So Avery where can we drop you?” He asks casually leaning a hip against a cluttered work bench and crossing his arms. She anticipated the question the moment she realized the plane was in flight, she just thought he’d save it for a private discussion. Avery takes a moment to drape herself against a bench in a similar fashion, facing kiddie-corner from him.

“Oh quite literally anywhere along the Eastern seaboard,” she notices the girl, Simmons, flinch at that.

“Pretty sure I’m not up for another experience like _that_ any time soon,” she knows what he’s alluding to but from the girls faint blush and the others unconscious supportive lean towards her; Avery knows, that they _think_ he’s talking about something else. Not liking the sudden spike of adrenaline and fear tickling her nostrils Avery sets aside that topic.

“Where are you off to next?”

“Most likely the Hub.” She openly wrinkles her nose in distaste at that response.

“Just make a quick pit stop anywhere along the way. I’m not picky.”

“How did you get to the Academy anyways?”

“A blue fury imp dropped me off,” it sounded flippant and that was her intention. She wanted to answer his questions but not give anything of importance away.

“Huh, convenient.”

“You have no idea.”

“Still teaching at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters?”

“Taking a sabbatical,” she quips with a low edge warning him to tread carefully. He probably does not need the reminder but that does not stop her from delivering it. She’d notice how Simmons startled in recognition at the front for the Institute – they were a school for ‘gifted’ youngsters just those with gifts beyond mere intelligence.

“You teach at Xavier’s?” She asks eyes wide, sparkling with sincere enthusiasm. “Then you must know Dr. Henry McCoy. I’ve read just about _every_ thing he’s published in both biochemistry and genetics. I do so wish he wasn’t such a recluse – he’s worse than Dr. Banner! I’d love an opportunity to pick his brain. Do you think if I wrote out a few of my questions and gave you my email address that he’d be willing to respond? I so desperately want to ask him his thoughts about” –

“Whoa Simmons, breathing is kind of essential remember,” Skye interrupts the girl when it looks like the young boffin wasn’t about to pause in her headlong rush for such mundane things like breathing. Simmons blushes prettily. 

“My apologies, its just Dr. McCoy is one of my idols. I never dreamed I would _actually_ get an opportunity to converse with him. He’s just so sequestered; I’ve never met anyone who’s even seen him before.”

“Yes, well like Banner, Hank has his reasons.”

“So I’ve heard, some sort of skin condition,” she’s nodding sagely then offering, “My specialty is biochem and I have made some modest advances in the field; perhaps, if he was willing to send me a few tissue samples, maybe even a blood sample or two I could take a look. A second pair of eyes on a problem always helps the solution reveal itself.”

Avery stares at the beaming scientist, dumbfounded and grateful that her default expression gives nothing away about what she’s thinking. She’s having a hard time coming up with a way to politely decline the girl’s generous offer. It’s not her fault that Avery’s knee jerk reaction is to bulk then lash out. Simmons doesn’t know the woman’s history with scientist and all the bad blood between them. She cannot be aware that McCoy’s ‘skin condition’ is a reference to his mutation and handy cover to explain his conspicuous absence from the public realm of the scientific community. No one would think to connect Beast of the X-Men with Dr. Henry ‘Hank’ McCoy renowned biochemist and geneticist. Above all the girl does not know that Hank is one of Avery’s soulmates and in that moment every single instinct the woman has is screaming at her to protect her own, violently if necessary. Luckily for her the engineer Fitz comes to her rescue; although that’s not without its own surprising twist. 

“I’d woul’ nae send her any samples, she’d just leave them out to ripen. Right next to ma lunch most likely.” He advises Avery and all of the mutant’s considerable focus zeros in on the young unassuming Scotsman.

“Oh not the bloody cat again Fitz!”

“It was on top ‘f my lunch Jemma! I couldn’t eat spaghetti-Os for _weeks_ afterwards – use to love spaghetti-Os.” 

Its hearing him grumble in his own Scots brogue that pulls the Doric out of her when tilting her head quizzical she asks; “Is it the loss i’ the spaghetti-Os, the smell or the fact ‘twas a cat that’s putten yer tail in sic a twist lad?”

His reaction is immediate and comical in its astonishment. He stares at her; eyes wild with an utterly flabbergasted expression whilst his mouth works up and down but no sound comes out. Avery bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, it does nothing to hide the delight in her eyes.

“Oh my _gawd_ Fitz!” Jemma exclaims and that jump starts his system. 

“Is this your handwriting?” He’s asking twisting about and yanking at the collar of his button down. Jemma helps him to hold it away from his skin so that Avery can peer down the back of his shirt. Draped in between his shoulders, like the comforting weight of a friendly arm, is her own fluid script.

“Ta,” she confirms stepping back and rolling up her left sleeve to flash him the inside of her forearm, “yours?”

“Aye it is.” She pats her sleeve back into place – aware that Fitz and Jemma (at least) got a glimpse of more than just the young Scots words – smiling warmly. He returns it with one just as radiant. Avery looks back at Phil and waggles her eyebrows suggestively. Phil does the only sensible thing he can at that point and face palms. Her laughter is a mellow purr of satisfaction.

After accepting congratulations from the others (and how she wished that revelation had not happened in front of Whelp) Avery excuses herself to go and bait May in the cockpit. Phil takes Fitz up to his office, officially for him to take care of some change of status paperwork, unofficially so that he and the Scot can talk without risking being overheard. There’s certain facts about Avery, about her life and history, that both Fitz and May need to be aware of before she’ll even think of offering to bond with them. Phil’s gone to lay the ground work with Fitz whilst she plans on sounding out May. A sharp rap on the cockpit door followed by a confident ‘Come in’ finds Avery standing within the woman’s inner sanctum, admiring the deft way she handles the stick navigating them through the skies.

“I expected you to stop by at some point,” May remarks flickering a side glance at Avery as she plops herself down in the unoccupied co-pilots chair. “You look like a co-ed, twenty, twenty-six tops but I recognized you from a picture in Phil’s wallet. The 2004 world series,” she pauses to gather herself and Avery waits patiently, she gets the feeling this is the most May has said in a while, “you look exactly the same and that was ten years ago. Something tells me that's due to something more than just clean living.”

Avery hums noncommittally in reply seemingly mesmerized by the passing clouds. Silence falls between them then and the women let it be, content to just share each other’s company. After a while Avery’s swiveling about in her chair pulling up the edge of her shirts and pulling down her jeans to expose the wing-bowed arch of a hipbone and the neat penmanship tracing it.

“This yours?” she asks May. The Asian woman turns to take in the words, her hand reaching out instinctively to touch. A finger traces a question over Coulson’s name and the skin goosebumps in its wake.

“Yours,” she asks hands pulling at her own clothing to reveal Avery’s mark on her in a mirror image. Avery feels the corner of her mouth twitch up into an involuntary smirk; there’s always something alluringly possessive about the sight of her writing on another’s skin.

“Quite a mouthful I gave you,” May grins in return.

“You and Coulson?”

“Platonic,” Avery supplies promptly. Not surprised that was her next question given company policy.

“Then you and I?”

“Undetermined, to remain so until you say otherwise,” she was ready with that response as well. “I know what I’m comfortable with, I won’t be pushing you into anything your not.”

Avery sees the relief as it chases its way across her features releasing the tense way she had been holding herself. May tries to cover it up by busily patting her clothing back into place.

“I’m not interested in anything non-platonic,” May admits giving Avery a hard look; daring her to disagree. Avery recognizes the signs of a soul that’s touch starved. It’s not healthy and whatever pushed May to isolate herself could not have been pleasant. However, dragging her into something she was not ready for would only compound the issue. It was defiantly a situation where one caught more flies with honey.

“Likewise, babe,” Avery wisecracks seriously. “Now that’s settle put this here boat on auto there’s things to be done.”

The revelations unveiled behind Coulson’s closed door appear to fascinate and frighten both May & Fitz in turns. They easily accept the fact that Avery has other platonic soulmates already, Phil among them, but openly scoff at the idea that she is a mutant. To prevent the discussion from dissolving into a round-robin argument – about the validity of mutation, what biological markers classify someone as a mutant as opposed to a mutate, if someone could possess a power such as hers or actual live even a quarter of the life span she’s alluding too – that would inevitably spiral out into the realms of philosophy and get them nowhere productive; Avery opts for an abortive, but effective, demonstration of her mutation. Wordlessly she holds out her hand for Phil’s pocket knife and Boy Scout that he is, he hands it over without hesitation. She opens the blade then deftly plunges it into the meat of her thigh and drags it down, opening a long jagged gash unperturbed by the blood lazily gushing out.

May and Fitz’s reactions are predictable. Horrorstruck gasps and garbled expletives followed by demands: _‘what the hell do you think you’re doing?!?_ ’. Avery just quirks an eyebrow at them while she pulls some tissue out of the nearby tin and deftly cleans off the blade; once she’s got it spotless she hands it back to Phil, frowning at the rip in her jeans.

“Do you have a sewing kit?” With a long suffering sigh and a roll of his eyes he goes to rummage about in a cabinet, eventually resurfacing with the kit held aloft triumphantly.

“What are ye going to do? Stich up your leg yourself, ye should let Simmons have a look at it?” Fitz pleads and he looks a tad green. Avery feels guilty for that.

“Take a look lad,” she instructs him gently pealing apart the edges of the hole in her jeans to show him the unblemished skin beneath.

“That’s not possible,” May is adamant.

Avery snorts out a mirthless guffaw; “Mutant,” and that puts an end to that argument.

In the end Fitz & May both decide to platonically bond with her. Avery cannot help her small pang of dissatisfaction when neither wants something more but she covers it well – not even Phil notices. She gave then the choice, after all, and would abide by their decisions. In a matter of moments the bond takes shape; a quick press of one bare hipbone alongside May’s and a friendly squeeze of Fitz’s shoulders, bare forearm resting alongside his upper back, and the deed is done. Avery feels their heartbeats click into place with the rest and she’s as satisfied as a cat that’s fallen into a whole vat of clotted cream. She does not trouble with masking her pleasure.

May’s stoic expression gives nothing away but the slight fluttering in her heart’s tempo is telling; Avery knows she’s in awe of the bond. Fitz is far more obvious in his bemusement.

“Am I truly feeling your heartbeat?” He gasps aloud, eyes wide and sparkly with boyish delight. “And you feel ours,” a wide arch of his arm to take in May & Phil, “in return.”

“Aye, along with the others.”

“How do you keep your heart from bursting,” it’s an exclamation more than a question.

“I don’t, right now ‘tis fair teeming over with joy.”

“Does this mean you’ll always know,” he pauses there overwhelmed by what he is experiencing. She folds him up in a motherly embrace.

“I’ll always ken how tae find ye,” she speaks the promise into his downy curls, capturing May’s eyes and telegraphing all her sincerity in a glance. There’s a miasma of engine oil, the static of electricity and the heather of the Highlands clinging about him, Avery drinks it in. “Just ask yon Phil, after all it was his attempt tae squirrel himsel away from me yon lead me here tae ye today.”

“She’s a regular bloodhound,” Phil jibes and Avery snakes out an arm to slap at him playfully.

“This means you felt it when Phil,” May begins then stops unwilling to finish.

“Aye I did, both when he left and when he came back,” she admits then hissing a breath between her teeth plows forward, “as will you if something should ever happen to me. My mutation does not stop me from dying, but I never stay that way for long.”

“So that’s why they flashed,” the warrior remarks hand hovering protectively over her soul mark.

“Yes, they’ll do that every time,” Avery replies pulling away from Fitz, giving herself space to pierce the three of them with a solemn golden stare. “What you need to remember is I do a fair job of keeping myself out of trouble and on the rare occasions when trouble finds me, it never holds me.” She gives them what she hopes is an encouraging smile but realizes it most likely looks bloodthirsty; “They have yet to invent a means of putting me down _permanently_ , and they’ve tried everything known to man.”

“You know Ave,” Phil points out conversationally, “that’d be a whole lot more reassuring if you did not look like you were about to pounce on and devour some unsuspecting antelope.”

“I am what I am,” that declaration is accompanied by an equitable shrug. “Woe to those who forget it. Speaking of, there’s something about yon Agent Ward that sets my fangs to itching.”

“Fangs,” May repeats, eye brow twitching a question. In response Avery allows one canine to distend to poke maliciously through a sardonic smirk. May blinks back her understanding.

“Now I’d take it as a kindness if outside of the three of you _what_ I am doesn’t get bandied about,” she waits until she gets a confirming nod from each of them. 

“Also, just because you’ve bonded to me it does not mean you’ve bonded with each other, or my other soulmates, doesn’t work that way. Still I hope ye’ll look out for each other regardless.”

“We’re a team Avery,” Phil reminds her gently; he knows how she frets. That relaxes her a bit; she knows that by ‘team’ Phil means family. She can’t shake her lingering doubts about the whelp, however.

“You’re a spider sitting at the center of a web,” May makes the analogy and Avery purses her lips giving it some thought. It’s an apt enough description but not one she cares for. Spider implies something secretive and sinister; two things she tries very hard not to be around her soulmates (she’s the first to admit that it’s been a very difficult and steep learning curve).

“More like Grand Central station,” Avery suggests preferring that mental image to the other. 

“When we rejoin the rest of your team I’ll not be making much to do out of either Phil or May,” she cautions directing this mostly at Fitz. Phil knows her views on privacy and Avery guesses that May is very much of the same mindset. “I would have liked it if our words had been exchanged in a more private setting but can’t be helped.”

She gives Fitz’s shoulder a comforting squeeze at his embarrassed blush; letting her fingers brush over his soul mark through the fabric of his shirt. She’s not blaming him, just stating a fact.

“Keep yourself to yourself, do you,” he remarks cheekily, blush abating.

“Right on the nose,” she jokes, booping the tip of his for emphasis. “Afore you set me loose I’ll be wanting to shore up the bonds; don’t know how often we’ll be able to get in touch what with you lot zooming about in this fancy contraption for SHIELD and all.”

“Come and find me,” May instructs slipping out of the office with a light pat of Avery’s arm.

“I have projects waiting,” Fitz temporizes. Avery nods encouragingly at him. Forming a soulmate bond even just a platonic one is a BIG step (without the added complications of bonding to her). He’s done a fine job of processing everything so far but he’s young and it was bound to get taxing. _1987, he's so very young indeed._ It would all sit better with him after he’s had a chance to gab about it with his closest friend.

“Would you mind asking Simmons what kind of questions she has for Hank? I can defiantly pass them along but I can’t promise a response.”

He gives her a grateful smile and makes his escape. She knows he’ll be talking to Jemma but scientific inquires would be a mere footnote to their conversation (unless they decided to look up the science behind soulmates and the marks). She’s not apprehensive about FitzSimmons. Avery’s delivered her warnings and is confident that he'll follow the guidelines she has set out; they are as much for _their_ protection as for hers.

It’s just her and Phil again. He does not waste any time.

“Don’t care for Ward, do you,” it’s a statement not a question. “Can you tell me why other than itching canines?” 

“You know as well as I, Phil, that if I could put my finger on why I’d already be sinking my teeth into his throat.”

“God I wish you had been in New York,” the statement is heartfelt and not meant to offend. That does not stop her from feeling guilty.

“You and I both, bucko, you and I both.”

“I can just picture you going for Loki’s jugular,” there’s a tremor of vengeance in his voice that she doesn’t much care for. She sniffs primly at the suggestion, rebuking him with a glance. “Just a thought,” he apologizes. “I’ll keep your doubts in mind, but I think you just got off on the wrong foot. He’s a specialist and they’re not known for their people skills.”

Avery wanted to point out that someday she’d have a soulmate openly admit to shooting her and she was fairly certain she wouldn’t hold that against him, but she didn’t. Arguing at this point would get her nowhere and she’s not one to beat on a dead horse. Phil was just too close to the situation to see it properly; Whelp was part of the team, he was family. If the man had a blind spot it was his belief in the sanctity of family – families did not turn their backs on each other; they did not sell their brother/sister out to the highest bidder. She’s lived through too many civil wars, seen too many families crumble underneath the weight of petty deceit, to know better. Avery’s done what she can, she’s put a burr in Phil’s ear, now all she can do was hope that Phil would be allowed to keep this last illusion, at least.

They drop her off somewhere in Virginia and there’s a taste like ashes in her mouth as she watches the Bus pull away from her. Avery can’t shake this feeling of impending doom.

SHIELD falls. Well not so much falls as **implodes** , with Rogers doing everything _BUT_ set off actual fireworks. Information alerts she’s placed on files that pertain to the mutant community (files SHIELD has been so kindly keeping off books; the incidents at 3 Mile Island, Liberty Island, Alkali Lake, Alcatraz to name a few) go off, before Rogers even finishes with his little crusade. She gets a call from Rogue informing her that Forge and Kitty are already on top of things; scooping up the data and concealing it behind the Institute’s firewalls. There are some documents, that good as they are, Kitty and Forge just can’t get at. Avery already has a contingency in place for that.

Its laughably easy for her to break into Stark Tower, but then again she’s always had backdoor access the silly boy was just never aware of giving it to her. She simply strolls through the private garage at the 2 am security shift change and right up to the elevators, pops open an access panel and types in a bit of computer code. (It’s a redundancy in Stark’s coding that he’s probably not even aware of, Howard had the same quirk). Her efforts are rewarded by the soft chime of an elevator arriving. She steps in and is on her way before the next patrol can even notice her.

“Good evening Miss,” the tower’s AI greats her.

“Jarvis,” she greats him warmly, looking about the elevator somewhat startled not to see anyone standing next to her. He sounds so much like the actual man that she half expected to see Edwin Jarvis smiling back at her.

“Are you looking for Sir?”

“I am, if he’s not otherwise occupied.”

“Sir is currently in his workshop tinkering,” from the way those crisp British tones clip the word ‘tinkering’ Avery gathers that Jarvis does not approve of Tony’s current manic spree of productivity. She can’t blame either the man or the AI. In the throws of SHIELD’s collapse a whole lot of ugly dirty laundry has been put on display; least of it being the revelation that HYDRA still exists. 

“Dr. Banner is with him, but appears to have fallen asleep and is unlikely to wake if left undisturbed. I can open Sir’s workshop for Miss without disturbing the doctor.”

“You’re a peach J.”

The elevator doors open silently on a, unsurprisingly, cultured lab with various projects in different stages of completion. At one metal workbench there’s a hunched over form of a man, head pillowed on his arms and with curly, fly-away, brown hair starting to gray. Gentle snores escape him and Avery pegs him as Dr. Bruce Banner. Her back twinges in sympathy for the ache he’ll have when he finally wakes. Nearby is a couch with a pillow and a throw blanket, without even pausing to think about it she scoops the items up and tucks the slumbering scientist in. If he’s not entirely comfortable than at least she can make sure he’s warm; her ministrations are tender, Banner does not even twitch an eyelid. 

With that squared away she rakes her eyes across the rest of the lab, seeking out the reason she’s made the trip. It doesn’t take Avery long to spy Tony. He’s just a few workbenches away, back to her, fiddling away with what looks like a new version of his suit. She pads softly over to him, and she can hear him muttering darkly to himself. She frowns at some of the blatant paranoia and cynicism he voices. 

“Pepper will understand, and it’s just a _few_ suits this time, not a whole flotilla. Not like I’ve had _time_ to build another Iron Man legion. We’ll just not mention _how_ much work I’ve been doing down here, right Jarvis? You are on **my** side J?” 

He asks the AI swiveling around in his stool to come face to face with Avery. His jaw drops in exaggerated alarm and she stands there leaning against the bench behind her, hands tucked into her jeans pocket, legs crossed. Tony’s silent for a whole – remarkable – two and half minutes before his mouth and brain catches up with what he’s eyes are seeing. Just when it looks like he’s gotten his brain back on track and is opening his mouth to demand; _‘who the hell are you’_ and _‘how the hell did you get in here’_ Avery cuts him off.

“I need a favor Stark,” she informs him, leaning forward and reaching around him to grab up a rare stack of post-it notes and a pen, she starts writing down the names of the documents she wants him to seek and destroy ignoring the garbling noises he’s making, “and for lack of a better option you’re my guy. Get your hooks into these,” she finishes looking up at him and stifling amusement at his expression, “keep them out of the public and defiantly the government’s clutches; or else.”

“Or else, what kind of lame ass Bond villain are you anyways?” He demands. Her lips twitch suspiciously in an approximation of a smile; _hello 1970, should’ve known._

“Do me this favor Tony, and you’ll never have to find out first hand.” She’s holding out the pad of sticky notes to him and he seems loathe to take it from her. Rolling her eyes she peals the top one off from the rest and presses it against his stubborn mouth.

“Be seein’ ya kid,” she informs him with a fond pat to his cheek. He’s frozen in place staring at her like she’s seven shades of crazy. With a smile she turns her back on him and struts out the way she came. Once in the elevator she allows herself a brief moment of laughter.

“Are you ready Miss?” Jarvis asks.

“You know what to do J.”

The elevator descends back to Tony’s private garage even as a klaxon sounds for the Avengers currently in residence to assemble. They’ll meet up and wait for the elevator doors to open only to find it empty. Avery having accessed the Tower’s air duct system through the elevator shaft and leaving out the back door of the coffee shop just off the main lobby. By the time it occurs to Stark to start an internet search for her, she’ll be on the other side of the country. 

It had always been her plan that in the (eventual, potential?) wake of a collapsed SHIELD she’d put as much distance between herself and the Institute. Avery was alright with making herself the bait for any rat bastard that could get ahold of those files and decide it was high time to get involved in mutant regulation, mutant experimentation, again. She was the feckin’ energizer bunny, after all, she’d rather it was her than one of the children. (She counted Kurt, Rogue, Hank, and Charles as children in those eventualities). An isolated individual was a tempting lure and who would pause to think she’d have a whole throng of powerful, passionate, mutants at her back. 

She goes back to her place in the Rocky’s. Firstly because she wants to pack up some keepsakes that she would rather not misplace and secondly, more importantly, because that’s where Phil first found her. It would be there that he’ll either find her again, or some HYDRA goon squad would come looking for her. The place was already compromised and Avery did not see the point in wasting the strategic value of knowing that. There’s no better way to thwart a waiting trap than to have a snare set to capture one’s would be hunters already in place.

Just a few days later Phil gets in touch. Avery’s only just returning from a hike into town with a crate of valuables settled on her shoulder all set to mail off to Xavier’s. She’s halfway up the beaten dirt path to her front door when her mobile sings his ringtone. She answers without hesitation.

_“Where are you?”_

“Rocky Mountain high.”

_“It’s compromised.”_

“I know.”

_“God, you’re impossible. Don’t be a martyr.”_

“Promises, promises,” by which she means she’ll try, “how’s mamma bear, the cub, and the rest of the Scoobie gang?”

_“We’re okay, for now.”_ She doesn’t like the way he pauses, _“There was a wolf in the fold, you were right.”_ She growls for a good five minutes at that.

_“We **are** alright Avery.”_ He reassures her and she knows it; she can feel it in the beating of their hearts. That doesn’t make her any happier and she’s starting to wish she knew how to clone herself. _“Lola’s totaled.”_ There’s a defeated note to his voice that puts her back up.

“Lola’s replaceable, you aren’t.” It comes out sharper than she intended. He squawks a protest. “Where are you?”

_“Motel 6, or something like,”_ comes the vague response, they’re both aware of the potential of eavesdroppers. _“We’re getting the Bus back.”_

Avery lets out a long suffering sigh and closes her eyes in a silent plea for serenity. She knew that was coming. Phil was not about to take a blow like Agent Whelp’s betrayal laying down.

“Noo ye don't go bein a martyr.”

_“Promises, promises,”_ He mimics and she snorts a disdainful chuckle. It’s the best they can hope for.

“Tell me fin its dane an I’ll come find ye.” He agrees and the call ends.

Avery does not hear from him for the next few weeks and the silence starts to get to her. She’s taking to obsessively pacing the borders of her territory, checking and rechecking every single one of the traps and failsafe’s Forge has designed for her then showed her how to rig. The spikes and eddies in her three Agent’s heartbeats does nothing to ease her nerves. In the wee hours of the early morning she’s callously startled awake by the sensation of drowning; she familiar with that particular strain on the heart, she’s done it before. For a terrifying moment she fears the worse but after quietening **her _own_** racing heart she’s able to discern all seven of her soulmate’s rhythms beating just below hers. There’s one that’s fainter than the rest and trepidation gnaws at her stomach. She throws the sweat stained blankets off of her and runs out into the early dawn. Only movement will keep her from clawing at her own skin in her anxiety. 

She does not come to a stop until she’s in a wooden gully, bare feet raw and bleeding (but already healing over) from her headlong rush over the rocky terrain. A few yards back she became aware of picking up a tail, and it was not the curious trailing of one of her fellow mountain lions or someother four-legged predator. Avery makes a show out of shivering in the cotton Captain America themed t-shirt she’d been sleeping in (a gift from Phil) and the worn sweatpants. Limping exaggeratedly she makes her way over to perch tiredly on a boulder; pulling up first one foot, then the other, to examine. Under the disguise of checking herself for injury she’s scanning the surrounding bramble and brush for signs of her stalker.

Avery spots the vague hunch of a back, the abortive movements of a deeper shadow within a shadow and a faint outline of a figure. She stares pointedly at it. A silent battle of wills plays out and Avery settles herself more comfortably on top of her rocky perch. She’s rumbled him, whoever he is, and it’s not up to her to make the next move. Avery’s fully prepared to wait out the next century if she has too.

She doesn’t, for which she’s grateful. She isn’t, however, prepared for the revelation of _who_ it is she’s picked up as a tail. Blatant and deliberate rustling of the forests undergrowth heralds the stranger’s intentions. A man slips out gracefully from his hiding place; he looks like a faithless vagabond; with scraggly long black hair (that hasn’t seen a shower or a hair brush in an age), a dirt, sweat stained hoodie of some indeterminate shade between navy blue and black and dark washed jeans that were equally filthy. It’s not so much his physical appearance that shocks Avery – he’s a handsome creature, she could get lost for days in those piercing blue eyes, despite the dirt – it’s the faint sound of shifting metal emitting from the left sleeve of his hoodie. She’s eye to eye with the _feckin’_ Winter _**Solider**_ in a way she hasn’t been since she glimpsed him through the edge of a window pane back in Prague. So startled is Avery that she almost loses her balance. It’s only the long ingrained habit of appearing nonchalant and unflappable that keeps her from staring at him in a fair imitation of a stranded fish.

When he opens his mouth to speak Avery gives up any and all claims to equilibrium she ever had.

“I killed you, shot you right between the eyes…forgive me?”

_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!!_ **Never** _would have pegged **him** as 1917!_

“Forgive what,” she demands hands running through her tousled hair in agitation, “funny thing aboot me I don’t break sae easily.”

He jerks upright at her words and his eyes snap at something over her shoulder. She turns her head to find herself bracketed by another man. Avery doesn’t need to see the white tank and jeans, or the wild tuffs of hair by his ears to recognize the Wolverine. She recognizes his scent from the lingering traces of it at the Institute. It was always clinging about Rogue and Avery use to be territorial about that until she realized the girl considered him a surrogate father, and not always the most reliable father figure at that.

He’s stalking forward with the stiff gait of an alpha male approaching a potential mate. Avery identifies it right away and responds instinctively. She’s not some animal meant for breeding. Her lip curls and she snarls a plaintive warning;

“Ye don’t wint me,” her brogue coming on thick at her morose frustration, “I’ll break ye. I ah’m aye breaking those I lo'e.”

“Give us a chance, doll. You’ll find we’re a bit more durable and a whole lot less fragile than you fear.”

_Oh, **OH!**_ She blinks rapidly at the revelation. Suddenly a lot of things start to fall into place and she could kick herself for being a stubborn fool. She and Logan could have met years ago. But then again, thinking about the words she did not really see in what other context they would work. _Bugger Charles_ , she can’t help but think; he’s going to be insufferably smug about this. The rest of them too, must likely, and Phil’s fit of fanboy squeals did not bear thinking about. Avery had peaked at the leaked SHIELD/HYDRA files; she was capable of putting two and two together and coming up with James ‘Bucky’ Barnes.

A brush of air draws her attention back to Barnes aka the Winter Soldier. He’s taken advantage of her distraction to move right up into her personal space, he’s as close to sitting in her lap as he can get without actually joining her on the boulder. Cocking his head slightly to the side he tries to catch eye. He seems remarkable put together for someone who’s supposed to be a brainwashed wreck. She wonders what happened to help him finally shake the programing.

There’s something about his face that catches her eye. Without thinking about it she reaches up and pushes his hair back, rubbing at the dirt along his right temple until she can make out the shape & twist of words beneath the grime. Avery recognizes the writing as her own and realizes it’s her soul mark on him that she’s been rubbing at. Suddenly shy she withdraws her hand only to have him capture her wrist. He pulls her hand flush against his cheek and presses it there whilst there’s a sudden presence leaning against her back. In a flash of clarity Avery knows exactly what position they’d have to be in to bond and she does not stop her purr of contentment at the thought.

It was not until later laying curled up and satiated between the slumbering forms of her romantic soulmates; Bucky with his head resting against his words on her breast, Logan with his bare chest pressed up against her back, that Avery appreciates that the last of her defensives has finally crumbled away. Melted under the onslaught of their warm bodies embracing hers, even as their soul marks bracketed her heart; with just a gasp of breath and in the space of heartbeat Avery had everything she’d ever hoped for. Listening to their shushed breathing and basking in the contented feeling of the nine bonded hearts beating alongside hers, Avery drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

There were others out there still waiting for her and she would find them, one day. For the first time in an age, tomorrow was a promise she wanted to face.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay firstly if you've made it to the end notes THANK YOU!!!! I really appreciate you taking the time to read this and bear with me, because this fic took on a life of its own.....Honestly, no joke this has consumed my life. I started it on the 11th and it took over my brain until I got everything written down and just when I thought I'd be done another scene popped up demanding to be added. I'll be the first to admit its turned into a monster and quite possibly got away from me. Probably a poor choice on my part to squeeze it all into a one-shot but I never _claimed_ to be smart. Plus I just could not break it up! I just kind of tossed out a lot of random ideas, not sure if those ideas are going to become part of my headcannon or not. It's an AU though so IF I ever write anything in this universe again I might just disregard everything and start from scratch. Never know. I'm also afraid it might have gotten too sappy on me, but *shrugs* had to end somewhere.
> 
> title is a bit ridic but I wasn't about to stop myself, obviously :P
> 
> Also I am aware of the bloody history of Vlad the Impaler (you don't get a moniker like that for liking kitties) but I'm a big believer of the idea that there's two sides to every coin. Plus I recently watched Dracula: The Untold Story and really took to the idea that like most men he had acted with good intentions they just happened to pave the way to hell.
> 
>  
> 
> Okay so I went and got a tumblr if you’re interested you can find me over there under the same name username [mariknickerbocker](%E2%80%9Cmariknickerbocker.tubler.com%E2%80%9D)  
> But, honestly, don’t go expecting much from me I’m still trying to figure it out (yes I know I’m technically as old as all the first gen tumblr users and should know this shit but I am comically behind the times all the effing time with all the things)


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